Talisman

Little tin key

lost somewhere in my memory, returned to me in a dream.

Like the blue-burning match blowing over the surface of

some drunk girl’s sweet, flaming party drink. Happy

birthday. Lucky

coin rubbed away to nothing, turned back into invisibility.

Back into its first atomic energy. Both

lost forever now and all around me. I’ve

rendered it, it seems, back into its

first longing — to keep

safe the loved ones on the plane, or on the freeway, or

strapped to the gurney, opened for the surgery, wheeled

into the lobby, being

screened for the journey, or stamped with the date

at the entrance to the pool, the portal, the nightclub, or

any spot where one might pull to the curb, drop

off a soft target, kiss it, make

with it a plan to fetch it later — 

unbloodied, still breathing, in no hurry. This

talisman with no magic. I’ve made it for you

out of your own flesh, teeth, hair.