Doorknobs

Lately I am no longer certain

if the sound of a doorknob

turning heralds your arrival

or your leaving. Or just the seconds

clicking by. But I’ll take what I can get.

Believe me, I try to get my mind off things—

the borrowed shirt still in my closet,

an email that has yet to be read,

your arms unlatching from me

many nights ago—but I still turn

to the broken doorknob in the kitchen.

Now in my hands like a butchered fruit,

it holds a weight, cold polished girth,

that begs one for scrutiny. I turn its parts

over and over under the light, study its shank

and spring and plates, see what I can make

of its android anatomy, as I hear in my head

your common complaints: The key is stuck,

this should turn the other way, this locks

itself twice already. Just this evening alone.

As infants, we are taught how close-

open works, our palms blooming and

unblooming to the chants of our tireless

mothers. Our very first education

on simple mechanisms. Years later

I must have learned the lesson too well

to a fault, learned that any opening

is such a welcoming angle. So despite

the shutting of doors and the key

to my apartment left on the table,

I keep fixing, turning the knob.

I keep turning to you.

This literary piece is part of Katitikan Issue 4: Queer Writing.