The Light Key

On the way home the shadows come back -

soft voice, long hands,

I run, and bite back the cry with a prayer.

There is no other choice.

These hands curl cold in blue pockets,

my hair hangs stringily over the sidewalk.

I watch my knees,

as if there is nothing sitting heavy on my back.

I hunch over words – I need those prayers - 

Light warms and sits in the middle – 

my ribs cage the warmest of all fires

and pushes outward – pushes it away.

My face falls upward;

now I can breathe again.

Looking up, everything glows -

the sun pushes grey oceans

gilding half-spent November leaves against the darkness;

new pennies scattered over pavement,

fluttering like coral fishes in the dark blue sea.

Home – the key sticks in the lock,

and Arthur's sword sticks in the stone.

I try the other door – the handle is cold and open.

I feel like scrubbing something.

My elbows wrinkle, sleeved in suds;

submerged silver chimes in my fingers. 

I need this right now.

You and I talk for a long time.

A stream of sun finds the basement window,

it hits a cut piece of glass hanging there 

and breaks into pieces. The glass is a light-key

that opens the sun, and shards of color spread over everything,

just to let me know you heard.