The sound you hear when the screen door
appears as a brick wall.
One your body’s shapeshifting can’t bypass.
You can still hear the sound of
light doors opening and closing
as you stare at a remembered door frame.
Your body has amassed layers
that make it more effortful to glide.
Have been formed from cells
that have the agility to multiply,
like the days a kind of currency
that can’t be counted as payment.
Though if it could
what would I buy back?
The thinner frame of my person,
or the door that I needed to stay small to pass through.
When you stop to see what you’ve run into,
you wonder how you could ever glide.
Was it momentum that kept you,
or other people’s feelings,
the grooming of experience
not yet a form of accessed expertise?
Was there ever a door,
or a screen,
or a thinning,
or just a body unaware of what brick
feels like on bare skin
below layers of adrenaline.
and I can’t tell
if this feeling points to a new insight,
or a very, very old one.
The kind that takes on the sounds
of how fast you’re moving.
Stalking whatever quality allows a shapeshifter to pass over their environment,
and end up standing smaller.