Key

Consider from the door

what you want protected,    a country where

the bolt holds its ground and        wood gives way

to be patched along the lintel,              threshold

              where lifetimes are sifted on either side

and blow away.          Where are they?

Just a door ajar that oceans are — you read,

yet the lock works          in terms of one

and many,        bits of broken glass in their wake,

an auger's tongue speaking the faces

in wood grain                        — It's me, open the door.

Pollen in the groves dispatched in moonlight,

stencil dabs of bats        and whip-poor-wills

when you think it safe              to open the door —

see earth auger.                    On either side, there are

the last-ditch efforts in the inclement that you,

that your children become,                beneath a wheel

that's never oiled,                        a screamer on the bridge —

the keyhole          and its ticking lock. Are you

bound to re-lose what you've lost?                        As if the key

may at pleasure join that which nature hath severed,

burnished catalyst,              second thinker,                            more than teeth.

What couples tenderly is me,          fibs the key.

You can tell from the scarred sill,                  this house is not

as old as you thought                    and on either side, you

know each other well.

Copyright © 2009 Miles Waggener All rights reserved
from Hubbub
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission