she pulled out the fresh wood as
it called up black and white memories
the wood smelled of pine and wisdom.
she pulled out a hammer and nails
from underneath her bed.

she made a large rectangle
from the pine, and
she picked up the first nail,
grasped the hammer,
squeezing the handle;
she held them both there for a while,
squeezing the handle
until her tips went white.
she stood staring
at the dormant door
leading only to her carpet.

she heard a voice call, she thinks.
her stomach churned, dropped.
she laughed at habit,
hysterically
crying.
the blue skies or rain litmus test
was a rainbow and she knew
only that she loved it
she loved her door too much
to let it sit there
leading nowhere
keeping her there
staring into carpet

she sat indian style inside her door,
arms behind head and
forming two acute angles
around her eager ears.

her fingers locked together
behind her head.
the hammer and nails crossed,
hands holding each other
and hammer and nail.
she exhaled deeply
standing outside the unnailed door,
looking down into it

she caught herself in the mirror and smiled;
it was the greatest smile she ever received:

she got down on her knees,
put her hair up,
lined up the first nail,
raised the hammer,
and pounded it down,
tasted oxygen for the first time

each nail easier than the last,
like the story goes . . .
a good new groove needs to become;
prefabrications are shackles.
she sweat, she bled, she cracked a fingernail . . .
she hammered the last nail into place

a nirvanic headrush filled
as she pulled herself up,
simultaneous with the doors erection.
she stood it up in the middle of her room,
and realized she had finished before she had finished

she'd already walked through.