Locked

Three dials, brass weight, cold

in my palm. I don't know what

this padlock opens, why I kept it

all these years, all these moves.

I held it up to the light

like the combination might

reveal itself, like memory

works that way. It doesn't.

The drawer is empty now.

Everything else gone—

old receipts, rubber bands, a key

with no lock to its name.

But this one I keep.

I could force it open,

jam it with something sharp,

hear the lock give way.

But I don't. Instead I'm standing here

holding something I can't open,

can't leave, can't remember,

keeping faith with a past

that sealed itself and won't

let me back in.

This is how we live—

carrying locked things,

turning dials in the dark,

pretending the combination

is coming back.