Trent Busch

by Trent Busch

When I open a door
I turn the knob gently,
fling it with my hand
or pull it wide, then look
inside before I enter.

The surprises waiting to
leap out red-eyed I learned
early from my father
when air was full of autumn
and oil field meter houses.

Caution dies hard, so if
you say to me, “Let’s ride
over to Lost River and go
swimming” or “Send us
a batch by late October,”

know that my suspicion
at your offered hand
is my way to reckon
with those who say, “Oh, it
will be worth your trouble.”

When I open a door
I do so with foreboding,
having seen the crouched feet
on door jambs, the fisted
head cocked above the floor.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 3.

Trent Busch
Although he grew up in rural West Virginia, Trent Busch has lived in Georgia for many years now. He own a small place out in the country where he has a workshop and builds furniture.His recent book of poetry, not one bit of this is your fault, was published by in 2019.

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