An excerpt from Gates
by Sahar Muradi

Read the automated transcript.

The one that belonged to her
The one where the light hit for the first time
The one between our houses
The one I crawled through to sleep on his chest
The one the dog squeezed through
The one at three over the candle and cake
The one at three at the checkpoint
The one between the earth and the sky, the refrigerator with wings
The one where he met us after one year and was a stranger
The one at the park, the one at Up Park, the one at Down Park
The one that pierced my face and they pointed and laughed
The one that took them away from me in a tube and sent them back to me tired
The one he went through, hairs shooting out
The one she went through, blood turning up
The one we all went through to get to the blinking lights with the cherries
The ones we put up when she was born
The ones we passed to leave for good
The one we paid quarters to get through
The one they learned the names of Presidents for
The one they needed social security numbers for
The one I touched in the dark of my room
The ones we couldn’t talk about, ever
The one we had to close behind us to stay in, to keep neat, to not be tempted
The one we tried to jump and failed
The one he jumped and wasn’t forgiven
The one in the books that made animals of us
The ones that told us who we weren’t
The ones that hurt, that swung and cut and rattled long after they left
The ones that kept flowers
The one I went through to go north, to go abroad, to go east, to find my cardinal ways
The one she went through too tired to find her way
The one they have chosen to give them purpose
The different one I have chosen
The one I haven’t yet found
The one I am looking through now with the narrow slots and passages unseen

An excerpt from "Gates," by Sahar Muradi, copyright © 2017 Black Lawrence Press. Used by permission of the poet.