LAURA GRACE WELDON

Little Door Right Here

It’s raining while I wait at
the East 18th and Chester bus stop,
the stop with a sign by the curb
but no shelter.
 
My jacket’s held up over
my head, rain streams
down my arms and legs,
into my shoes.
 
Lady idling at a red light smiles
as if she might roll her window down
a little ways to yell
something encouraging
 
like think dry thoughts!
or carry your own sunshine!
or you’re only as wet
as you believe you are!     
 
No nearby doorway where I might
see the bus coming, no kindly tree.
These days pop advice preaches
you have to love yourself first
 
as if the crying baby, lonely teen,
poisoned river, racism, all
claims on conscience cannot
be answered till we reach some
 
uncharted stage of inner radiance.
Wasn’t it Jung who said we must
embrace our shadow side
to be whole? Or maybe
 
I’m thinking Bob Ross.
“On this side, we want it
to be darker,” he said, “so
we'll paint a little door right here.”
 
The lady may like the umbrella
she keeps in her car, may believe
you must love yourself first,
but she rolls her window down,
 
implores me to take it.
I hope she loves herself
a whole lot more
thanks to its absence.

Laura Grace Weldon was named 2019 Ohio Poet of the Year. She has published three poetry collections: Portals (Middle Creek 2021), Blackbird (Grayson 2019), and Tending (Aldrich 2013). Laura works as a book editor, teaches writing, and maxes out her library card each week. Connect with her at lauragraceweldon.com