(Published in Havik’s 2024 “Exomorphosis” Poetry anthology)
we’ve been here a week and i can’t open the front door
even though everyone else has an easy time opening it
my fingers grab the llave and pull in the manner locals
say abrirá la puerta but i say i’m not strong enough
i stand outside in the hallway looking up and down
the stairs expecting someone to miraculously show up
and turn the key the correct way and let me in
my husband says unlocking the door is simple
he shows me over and over again how you feel, fácil,
for the spring and turn the key but i have no such suerte
i am yet again stranded in the chilly hallway
feel the breeze sneaking in from outside the building
and up the stairs as my tired feet balance on tiles
chipped like broken eggshells while the smell
of someone’s backed-up plumbing wafts along
with the fresh air from outside and i suddenly detest
the custard-colored front door i now know so well
the door’s paint is chipped in places revealing
the oak beneath it and i realize i could
find those spots of missing ochre in my sleep
the key is again in my hand
the lock again refuses to budge
our apartamento has been renovated
spic-and-span appliances and sinks
and cabinets and floors
all newly installed but what good
is any of it if i can’t open the door
i realize no one is coming to help
so this time i calm myself
take deep breaths
insert the llave with both hands
find the spring inside the lock
turn it lentamente
my right hand aiding my left
and find the door
miraculously opens
