The key you lost
lives like a fugitive on your skin.
It is the prelude to our memoirs,
a poem fused to nectarines, an exploration
through Copper Canyon, visions
of Haiti’s angels licking my ears,
a hypnotic belly dance on the sand
matching the colors that mesh
on your hip scarf, an experiment
we refuse to put down, an invitation
to cross the doorway of the home
I no longer occupy.
The key you lost is not the manual
of a digital camera, or calendar entries
for next month’s readings. It is not
a Popular Mechanics article you wrote
to put food on our table,
or a classified add on craigslist.
It wants to be the bungee jump
into the pangs of a deer in heat,
the obituary of bolted doors,
a list of all the vacant walls
on which we'll scribble
our erotic graffiti.