I still have the doorknob for the daisy
attic bedroom of
my home at age twelve.
I really craved a
skeleton key—
stealing the
cellar key takes more resolve.
I’d probably be
haunted by Southern ghosts—
we were part of
the Underground Railroad.
The term “we” is
used loosely by most.
These days
abolition is such a fad.
I found it the
other day—the knob I mean—
deep in a box of
trinkets and make-up—
held the cool iron
in my palm again
until I felt a
poke and let it drop—
THUNK!—on the
wooden floor, a fatal sound—
heard a laugh from
the cellar underground.
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