LOCK AND KEY

He found a box under her bed,
an old wooden box with a lock.
At first he ignored it.

Sometimes he heard it creaking -
the wind still ran through
the branches it was cut from.

He pulled at the lid and scratched it.
Soon he noticed the wood
had grown around the gash.

The edges of the lid and the sides
of the box grew outwards,
making a pair of wooden lips.

He ran his fingers across the lips,
knotted, dry and comforting,
like the mouth of an older woman.

He spoke to the box every day,
kissed it and begged for its secret,
until the lips drew back.

When he saw the sappy wood
he ripped it and the box opened
with the hiss of a tree being cut.

There was nothing in the box.
When she saw it was broken
he had no one to talk to, no one to kiss.

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