NAZ KAYNAKCIOGLU
Commended - 2021 Tower Poetry Competition, 'The Key'
Daughter
My father would hoard all the keys in the house,
Whichever house, from the Mediterranean to the North Sea,
A collection of all the lives we have lived, a medley.
The key, he says with a smile, or he would if we spoke the same language,
The key, he says, is to make your edges sharper, your borders straighter,
It is to be cut out with blades of a machine, sparking with heat.
But what even am I without my walls falling apart?
I am so soft, mutable, built like a master key
From the chaos I was born in. That is what I am meant to be
Or some sort of room without a door.
I come from him, so I must know what I am doing
But I also come from people who never know where the keys are.
I come from witches and people you would hide in the top shelf,
Broken trinkets that are pretty until the second glance
Hiding away from a culture that prides itself in its structure
And sharp edges that cut people like me.
So I sit back, watching from by bed the chaos I have created
With my own two hands. And I can’t help but think,
Think to myself in the middle of my sleep,
Where did I put my keys this time?