The Door Swings Open

Charleston door

The Door Swings Open

©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson

It was Charleston in the fall,

no other bodies there to bend

the energy, just you and me (us...we),

begetting child-free memories to own. 

The hotel reeked of history

and old rugs, water weeping from

the walls, halls filigreed in shades

of ochre, overlaid with stains of brown.

Our bed, four-postered, coverlet of lace,

commode beside, was dignified

by carved vitrine; replete with nicks, knickknacks,

dust tracks and violets––the velvet ones, with tales to tell.

It drew us into sweetness, thick

as warm molasses corked in clay  

jugs, fading red to pink, the stink of slave

market graced now by art and flowers.

                                                                                                             

We walked for hours.

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