The Key

My spine falls in winter rain and
pools in grainy puddles in my bones.
These days, my knees bend only in an act of faith while
Stepping slowly down from any height.
I remember gliding and the way I would melt into the shape of others —
How summer swayed my hips and caught the hungry bees
But now they lock and stick as if I’ve lost the key
Inside my bent and brittle ribs, underneath this open heart
That slips and skips and leaps across the slushing of the days
Beating loud against the narrow pane of time.