What is Locked
Back home, the house was never locked,
even when we worked the far quarter,
even at night. “Someone might need help,”
mama said, and sometimes someone did.
Besides, when someone arrived, the burnt metal
owl-chimes cling-clang-tangled against
the side door’s window, owl mama with her
her babies tethered to her by invisible string.
No one locked the car, nor the half-ton
parked and ready to start. Mama said,
“I’d rather someone take the car
than come in the house to look for the keys.”
But the gas tanks were padlocked, reaching skyward
on criss-crossed limbs, warning good-time thieves
to leave. Nearby stood granaries—ribbed steel
sheltering gold—fortified like the fertile.
The day’s work was only done when told,
“Go check the shop is locked.” I’d run
barefoot over gravel in July; in January
wearing mama’s coat and dad’s size thirteens.
“And don’t forget to feed the cats!” Come-and-go
toms hid behind metal cabinets cellaring burlap sacks
of potatoes and onions, or near the saws,
the compressor, the welder, the endless row
of rolling toolboxes, the beam trolley chain hoist,
dusty shelves of engine oils, repurposed
barrels holding brooms, shovels, paper, and
scrap metal, the cupboards of tow ropes
and tarps, the long work bench of gloves and rags
and hand cleaner and wall phone and radio
and vises, and close beside, the beer fridge flanked
by cases of stubbies, stacked wood, locked stories.
Stories that unfurl like a dismissed fist, stories
of why and who and how we come to be, of what
we inherit, of what we keep, of what we lock,
of what what we release, of what we hold.
Leanne Shirtliffe (she/her) is a writer and educator from Calgary who’s working on a poetry collection at the intersection of farming, feminism, and family. Some of Leanne’s most recent work appears in CV2, Stanchion, One Art, Stoneboat. You can find her at LeanneShirtliffe.com and read her overheard haiku on Instagram @leanne_shirtliffe.
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