The Keyhole
Cheryl Chambers

No middle age exists for me
at thirty and three—you see,
reader, in your spritely autumn walk
and lilting tilt of the head.
Does this make you
uncomfortable, too,
the little girl woman
in years past the apple
of her daddy’s
eye? I speak true
lies like the rest, the married
maiden cowering beneath her chest
and belly wondering why this
halved boy waves his key
my way. I am well-
oiled, ready to receive
the words I spoke just yesterday.
Alone with words and woolen blankets
hiding, thriving on the unitched tingle
erupting on the newly shaved and showered.

Sit back, little girl woman
while I, a Hessin amputee,
sit you on my knee
and tell you stories
you already know.

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