Let’s open all the locked doors upon our eyes
That keep us from knowing the Intelligence
That begets love.
—Hafiz, “Why Ask the Donkey”
In the cupboard
behind the desk
there’s a silver ring
with over a hundred keys.
There are more keys
in a cup. Some loose
in a drawer. And
I have tried them all.
Some fit the lock,
and the heart skiddlydips
at the chance that
this is the key. But
the knob stops too soon
and the stubborn lock
dumbly gapes. And
I curse the keys,
the lock, the space
beneath the door.
And so it’s out with a huff
into the night
where the moon
waits for me, a scythe,
and I see through the window
the light inside the locked room—
the window, the window?
the window! it’s high, but ajar.
The window. I stack up
a bench, a box, a pail,
and climb to the top
of the teetering pile.
I cling to the drainpipe
and we both fall down.
This is, I think,
just like the path
to love, as I clamber again
toward the opened pane
hoping to drop
to the bedroom floor
where the key
I was given
sits on the table
beside the locked door.