Penelope Moffet
Penelope Moffet lives in Southern California, where she writes, draws and strives to keep her 18-year-old cat happy. She has been writing poetry since she was a child. She’s worked as a bread-slicer/packager in a bakery, cashier for a fast-food chicken joint, draperies manager at K-mart, print shop paste-up artist, freelance journalist, photographer, publicist for non-profit organizations, editor, legal secretary and dog-walker. Her most recent chapbook is Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022). Her poems appear in Eclectica, Calyx, ONE ART and other journals. A full-length collection of her poetry will be published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2026.
Red Door
I should not be
northbound on this
two-lane road
so late at night, after
lingering with friends
on ocean bluffs.
Mine is the only car
on Highway One
and the deer knows
I am out of place,
half-blind on the curves,
but she stops partway across,
lets me pass.
Miles later the skunk
I barely miss
writhes on asphalt
as I skid by,
wondering
if he’s rabid,
or horny,
or claiming this small
piece of planet for his own,
his raised tail
a territorial
exclamation point.
Up a side road
I retrace the route
I took that afternoon
but it all looks different
in the dark. I park
where I might
have parked before,
walk through a gate
I don’t remember,
pray there are no dogs
or shotguns here.
And there’s the icy cabin,
unfamiliar in the fog,
known only by
its blood-red door.
