The Key

Four and a half pointy teeth
bite into my skin
as my fingers, blind and questing,
explore the denim darkness
of my fading Levi’s jeans.
It clinks coldly at my touch,
a jaw that reminisces
its past life as a bell.
Unsheathed, it gleams.
“Wheatish” my mother would have called it.
The key is golden
like fields of wheat.
But my mother calls everything “wheatish”
like my skin
when I asked what colour I was
and the sea of tents that August
that still floods her dreams.
Silently my key slinks
into the door that awaits its
whisperings and secrets.
Click.
Home greets me once more
as it did my mother once
in fields of wheat
between four and a half pointy teeth.