in the lost key orchard

april is a time of [ ] & the flutter-bang
of teal noise. whose back yard 
do you need opened? is the locksmith 
always a father figure or am i just
looking anywhere i can find? a hurtling branch.
the storm, a tea kettle on the throat 
of a huge dead bird. baby in a fortune wheel.
alligator scraping at door edges.
i used to want to be a grower of lostness
& then i started eating only flowers.
picked apart each morsel. the stamen.
the pistol. the sticky yellow pollen.
i was ready to swell with plums & peaches.
often, when i eat stone fruit 
i find keys inside instead. they don't fit
any door i know. they're gone-keys.
nowhere keys. i hang them from a necklace
to remind me no all locks are meant to be 
pried open. my uncle lived 
on the other side of our house. his door
was almost always locked but once 
when i tried it, the portal opened.
i saw him on all fours spitting keys 
onto the tile floor & then sweeping them up
like nothing had happened. the doors we close
for our loved ones. i used to be so sick 
i mistook glances for door knobs.
used to use my skin like a bed sheet.
still do sometimes but now it is april 
& it is a time of [ ] & we are very close
to the dead grass season where even
a creek can't save us. i want to keep my friends
in paper bags. i want to find homes for the keys.
at night i hear them clink together 
like metal goblins. the trees with their
copper-green leaves. then again who isn't
kept awake by an openning? holes in my walls 
breathe like goldfish. the orchard is 
only widenning. encrouching on the yard
& the stairwell & the kitchen window.
how can there be more? soon though soon
there will be. until then i find a lovely lock
for my tongue & another for each eye.
then, shut them tight. burry the keys
between jangling branches & roots. 

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