Elizabeth Beck

it would circle the moon and pierce the sun
before returning to me tasting like burned toast.
It matters. Whether the word
travels to the Great Barrier Reef
or settles at the bottom of a shot glass,
it belongs to me. It is mine.
I study snapshots from my childhood & collect
skeleton keys looking for clues that no longer
exist. The truth isn’t important now, of course.
It never is. Never was, actually.
Searching for a word, my mind wanders
sifting through eviscerated lines of poetry as
the sunlight slants and the shadows recede
the truth clicks back into place.
I lock the door behind me.