By Angel Rosen
“Too small,” he says,
moving onto the next key.
He has over eighty keys,
and every day he starts
with the first one. “Doesn’t fit,” he says,
pulling the mismatch out of the keyhole.
There is some ruckus outside.
A little boy sees a big door
with a big lock and wonders who lives inside.
He tries to reach for the knob,
on his tip-toes and bunny hops.
“Too small,” he says.
Curiosity aside, he fears the size of what
lives there.
At dusk, the giant puts away his keys,
unsuccessful in today’s attempts
to unlock the door. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks.
He begins again, starting with the very first key.
“I will never get to leave,” he says, relieved.
Curiosity aside, he fears the size of what
lives there.
Angel Rosen is a poet, a lesbian and a neurodivergent human being. Angel can be found listening to The Dresden Dolls, watching RuPaul's Drag Race or drinking lemonade. She is the author of two poetry collections, Aurelia and Blake. Her poetry can be at angelrosen.com or on Twitter.
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