When the sun goes down my father climbs into a hole shaped liked the outline of his crane-
folded body, he believes he is
exploring and we are invaders of otherwise peaceful paths, we are hiding the door and blaming
him for the broken lock,
we are sirens, my mother and I, wailing a sailor’s song into the mountain air, hoping he will
anchor and stay for the night,
where are the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, where
did he leave them this time?
He wants the television dead, the night birds to stop tapping the window, the lights to come back
on, he wants the maps to unfold
and speak rivers and highways because he can no longer read the diagrams that he once drew,
his hand in his pocket,
reaching for the wallet we have hidden on top of the closet shelf, the light bulb burned
out that we will not replace,
where are the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, the keys, where
did I leave them this time?
# # #
Beth Gordon is a poet, mother and grandmother currently living in St. Louis, MO. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize; and her chapbook, Particularly Dangerous Situation, is forthcoming from Clare Songbird Publishing House. She is also poetry editor of Gone Lawn.
Photo: Phil Henry
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