I opened a door. I unleashed the lock. The tension

inside is already gone.

Turn the key, feel it be

free.

Engage the new light, feel it

unwind.

It has forgotten how it feels to be outside.



You’ve been walking barefoot in a street speckled

with snow, like salt and pepper on an egg,

sunny side up with toast.

It’s easier to walk this way—scarred and frozen,

you say, you say,

as you pull the scarf tighter around your

neck,

button each button again and again.

The freeze creeps up your uncovered legs,

tickling each hair, each bone, each cellular day.

It lights them up before cutting them down.

The trees lay bare, they lay and they

lay.



But the snow is shivering into a river,

and you’re finding the road is shy and bitter.

You open an old door, forgiving the lock. The tension

from outside is already gone.

Turn the key, feel it be

free.

You twinkle your toes, and feel them

unwind.

They have forgotten how it feels

to come inside.