made of lock, made of key, made of bone
and long windows. made gently, piece
on piece, paving stones selected, set—
leading to the door or away again.
premises sealed. made hollow, made arches
holding up white ceilings, wide
the length of time for sun to reach
across each room. unnecessary moon
erasing the warmth of afternoon
still in the floors. hardwood, a hanging
platform built indoors. o knots and planks,
a narrow boat to cross
from bank to bank. toll of pennies tossed.
who keeps these gates? house not means
but place—desert, now undone, dissolved
in sand, peeling away in ants.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.
Aran Donovan is an MFA student in poetry and translation at the University of Arkansas. She likes it there. Her poetry has appeared in Phoebe and is forthcoming in Southern Poetry Review and Rhino.
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