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I Got In Trouble With The Maid
I was seven, barefoot in the hallway,
nose pressed to the brass knob of the guest room—
she’d left the key out,
but I wanted to see through,
the way you want to see the belly of a piano,
strings naked, all hammer and throat.
The maid caught me,
her voice full of linen snaps and starch—
What are you doing, Miss?
I lied. Said I was looking for the cat.
There was no cat.
Only the shimmer of her hair under her cap,
and the broken goldfish bowl of my curiosity,
spilled on the carpet of my chest.
That night the sky turned dark like a locked door.
I thought about the keyhole,
how it had looked back at me.
How secrets sit still like fish
in the murk of people’s lives,
waiting for someone small and stupid
to come tap the glass.
And I,
with my hollow hands and soft mouth,
wanted only to know
what lived behind things.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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