It's Still Life

The Memory of a Spare Key

I am eight, which is very grown up, old enough for my own front-door key.

Happy birthday, Mum says, dropping it
into my palm.

Keys are power. I know this from the way they dance
heavy on chains, keeping time against my father’s belt,

from the way grown-ups wear them like puzzles
they alone can solve, a little jewellery of doors,

each thin brass finger knowing where it belongs.
No more scratching around like a dog after a lost bone,

no more remembering which secret place today —
under the porch step, beneath the mat, behind a flowerpot.

This one is mine. Its sharp teeth press
their small jagged promise into my fingers,

and when I close my hand around it, the metal
loses its coldness, becomes body-hot against my skin.

Try it, Mum says, so you know it works.

I feed the key into the lock and gently turn.
There is resistance, then a click, the fragile tumble

of something giving way. The door opens
because of me.

And I am safe as houses,
inside.