The House
by Mary Ann Meade



There is no way out of the house, the digger
has the cellar key wrapped around his waist.
Though my sister bend, trying to find a crack
in the stone of the house. That's what kin do,
slip a note through a crack. Though the note
is never in the crack, never in the perfect row
of white lupine planted in memory of. No way
out of grief, I go home, take the dog out, play
catch-the-stick in the night air. Once I threw
the old house key to the north star. The dog
went after it, buried the key in the soft earth.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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