There are many tiny keys in bowls
and drawers throughout the house.
They should be able to open things like doors
and locks for luggage, but no one remembers
now which ones are coupled. And I myself feel
sometimes like a misplaced rudder, other times
like a sock whose pair went missing, somewhere
between the wash and dry cycles. Years ago,
when I left my first country, my mother placed
a plaster saint in my hand and wrapped my fingers
around it. Its painted skirt is still blue, its halo
a chipped gold. It stands on a shelf of drawers
dwarfed by the telescope which was a birthday
present for my husband, but which he has not
yet trained upon any corner of the night sky.
Time unsheathes its slim blade, releasing each
year’s envelope of unpredictable directives.
These open with no need for keys. Sometimes
there are folded maps inside, islands and oceans
inked in the shapes of rare fish and birds.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
