The Iron Ghost

It’s heavy as a hammer in my hand,

a jagged thing that bit into the wood.

I try to make myself understand

why she would keep it if she could.

The rubber band is dry and snaps away,

a yellowed skin that flakes upon the floor.

She hasn't used a key like this since May

of nineteen-eighty-four.

It doesn't fit the front or back or side,

it doesn't click within the basement lock.

It’s just a secret she decided she should hide

behind the kitchen clock.

I hold the coldness of the rusted bite

and wonder what she’s keeping in the dark.

A door that opened on a different night

and left this heavy mark.