brass bracelet with key

it hangs from her wrist
brushing out notes on the cabinets,
chairs, appliances. it hangs
against her skin
repeating the touches of cold fingertips
as she turns her hands this way and that
through the slow river of her day. she rises
to remember the song of
the man who polished her bones.

mother is alone now, waiting for the consolation,
balancing the accounts again and again.
she keeps a hope the deficit will be filled,
that the mysterious key will find a lock
warm enough to open the improbable door.
it is clear that when she passes such a device
the brass will warm, begin to dance
guide her surely without thought toward
some kind of rest.

no hard metal encircling my wrist,
no ring in my nose, on my toes
but as mother passes
her key begins to vibrate –
her wrist trembles, face falls.
she raises an arm slowly,
an arthritic finger making the exclamation
for her silent mouth. it points
at my middle, my cautious heart.
I feel my own lock begin to sing.