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Key

Ian Powell-Palm

I stick a metal key inside the boy’s mouth,
 and am surprised when he doesn’t start.
I am waiting for his engine to rev, for chaos to ensue,
 for anything at all to happen. Nothing happens.

I am waiting for hope. For some form of love.

I will settle for this form of ex.

I will settle for anything that will compromise this body,
push it forward, show it new ways in.

Hope is a woman that bears a passing resemblance to my mother.
 Hope must have had prior engagements,
 to keep her gone this long.


Tell me why,
I am sitting in this movie theater,
alone in the darkness,
 feeling the metal of a car key between my fingers?
I slide my tongue along its surface, place it between my teeth.

 
I am surprised when I don’t start.
I am surprised when nothing at all happens.
I am the same, as I always was, bruised,
looking to be sold down river,
with the lingering stain of metal sticking in my throat,
That tells me to try again. Until it yields, or I do.

This key clutched within my fist,
tells me to try again, until something inside me starts.
Twist and turn, it says, until I am able to hold its presence in my mouth,
And not picture this body as an automobile with a painted door,
going 100 miles over some Montana interstate,
bound to crash.

 
Twist and try again, this key seems to say,
Until its weight inside my mouth,
Is not to be confused with the patient waiting of slumber.

Nor for the opportunity that my body must be craving,
The chance to nosedive off of this hopeful cliff.

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