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Yuko Minamikawa Adams

Whenever I make a friend,

I create a key.

I write their names in my address book

and set out to mould brass.


I met a new secretary at work.

I stole a glance at her and

watched how she typed a letter.

It stuck on my memory.


I went home and incubated her image.

I made a thin key, mimicking her fingers.

I also made it jagged

to reproduce clutter of her typing.

I put a ring on the key and

hung on a hook

like hanging fish in a cellar.

I ticked her name in the address book.


At night

I stepped toward her house.

I inserted the key into the hole

and turned it.


From Brittle Star No 20 (Autumn 2008)