The Key

I hold the key to a doorway

of an old house which was blown away by a storm.

But when I lie in bed I think I can hear it

I found it in the woods and I keep it in a tin, like a sweet

But at night when I’m afraid of what my eyes may see

I slip my hand inside my pocket

and I shake the tin and listen

to the small sad steps of passing ghosts

slipping away like sorrow

and they’re so cold I can see their breath seeping from under the lid

So I curl myself up as small and still as I can clutching the tin

and I fall asleep knowing I am not alone at all.

By Anais Dietz Lipscomb Dos Santos