I draw the closet door shut
and watch as the cracks of light become smaller until
I had forgotten my fear of the dark.
This isn’t darkness though–
darkness is my front yard back home
lit by the stars and flickering street lamps,
dim enough for me to trip over a garden hose.
This is tar
painted on the dark side of the moon.
I blink to make sure that my eyes
aren’t glued shut.
My vacuum cleaner–
or perhaps the floor lamp that broke last semester
–cramps my toes while
my hamper digs into my heels.
Bulky sweaters and silk scarves
rustle against my bare arms.
Thin slices of light crawl underneath the door
where the wood has worn away.
Outside I can hear the quiet clatter
of fingers on computer keys and then
my roommate calls
You going to Narnia?
I laugh and rest my forehead against
the closet door.