By Maureen Sherbondy
All you want to do is fly away
from the trees you planted years before,
from the house collecting boxes
in the attic's dust, to flit away from fleeting
time. The husband snores in a shared bed
but you no longer know him. Overnight
some old man robbed his body and mind,
left behind an imposter in the four-post
bed. What was it you once desired?
A brick house on a quiet tree-lined street?
Sweet babies asleep in their beds?
In front of you a door you have a key to,
ridged metal leaves an achy red imprint in your palm.
Now you must knock from the outside
because you are just a stranger.
You want to bury the key in the yard,
to shoot an arrow into the clouds,
watch it land near a different town,
a different house, a different man.
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