When you look at me I don’t want to be understood but strange to the touch, I don’t want to be an open book.
When you speak to me, I want my words to unfold like a riddle so that no one can ever hold the key.
But last winter I lost the key and I found it in the pocket of your jacket or underneath your pillow at night or next to your tapping keyboard, I lost the key to the walls I built to protect the tsunami from breaching.
Words rolled off like butter on toast and the honey just stuck to everything I spoke. My fingers hardened and curled into talons, so that everyone I touched I seemed to pierce their skin and penetrate their loneliness. Sorry if I have left a mess of scattered feathers, once so snowy white now dull grey clouds.
But yesterday I reached into my pocket and felt the key nestled so pleasantly.
So now when my talons pierce or my words stick, beware where you thrown your net. I might soar overhead, with feathers glistening and combing the air.
You can’t sight me anymore, but that’s the point. I don’t want people to look at me.
How can I possibly allow them to do so, if I can’t even see my own self?



but perhaps there is a spare,
a spare key