Poem: Keys

For Dreux.

...

You said a word that was a key
& the key found a scar,
& the scar touched a nerve,
& the nerve led to a memory,
& the memory was a night,
& the night was a crossroad,
& the crossroad was a dream,
but the dream had no sleeper.

My eyes opened on a wood,
in the wood was a garden,
in the garden was a bench,
on the bench I sat
& she sat with me;
we held each other,
while we fell to piece,
& the piece kept falling
until there was no bench,
until there was no me,
until there was no her.

My eyes opened on a heart-shaped face,
irises flecked with green,
red lips anxiously quivering.

You said a word that was a key,
& the word found a lock,
& the lock was a scar,
& the scar was a nerve,
& the nerve was a memory,
& the memory was a door;
through the memory was a path,
& the path went through me,
& the path was unlit,
but I heard you,
& your words were a light,
& your words were a tether,
& your words were a key.

...

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I have tried to resist sentimentality, to really struggle against it Simultaneously, this does seem to capture the materiality and the empirical experience of this particular moment. I'm reticent to even post this; it might communicate more than I wish to say, but all words are burdened with that potential. Structurally, there is a simplicity that I wanted to work with immediately, a simplicity that carries into rhythm. This might be as close as a I can right now to just a string of nouns attempting to communicate a story (word, memory, door, night, crossroad; wood, garden, bench, her; face, eyes, lips; key, lock, memory, door, path, light, tether, key).

In addition, there are two memories that became (or were revealed to be) intertwined. These women are distinct, but the memories were experienced in an odd unison (a sharedness that irritates for its suggestions about these rather different circumstances). That said, to capture the reality of that immediate experience, I have compressed them just as I experienced them.