by Camilla Jean Welsch
The key to an apartment in which I don’t live.
It has a balcony on the 2nd floor and a half,
and soft white linens, and pale throws,
and on the bed are baby clothes,
and the woman living there is a single mother.
It comes as a premonition to me, seeing on the pavement this dropped key.
It comes attached to a yellow, rhinestoned C,
heavy, as I debate it in my hand where to set it now,
and I hear a baby somewhere cry beyond, and then quiet down.
But the woman and the baby and the apartment and the key
are just a memory of an early light’s dream.
And I suppose that woman is supposed to be me.
But I have no baby, no pale throws, no baby clothes,
and the key?
I don’t know.