Lawrence Di Stefano

Locking Up

First,            all sensation goes,
populating
                        the outermost region
of sensory perception—
                                       tired pigeons
lined across the rooftop,
                                      watching.
Now for the choreography

of unassuming movement. I unlatch

the keys from my belt loop—hands
                        trembling, pulled out

to sea, already.
                        Then the smell
of salt.
                        You’re still here
—waiting
               for your ride it seems
            —horizontal axis running
from one far end
            of the empty street

                                    to the other.
It’s just us                       

                        and the moon—
full and bright over the water
—but who am I

                                    to you?, I think,
but a pair of eyes
                         seen only from a distance.

I’m both here,
                              and not,
looking for the right key—
you, looking
                        at your phone—
skin, a rinse 

of moonlight in the dark,
                   as I’m locking up

the doors of the restaurant
we both work at.

Body—
              tidal, behind this crashing
of circumstance.
                           Clouds.

I know how to, I remember:
                         first, it’s the
deadbolt
sliding smoothly through
                          the strike plate—

engaged,
                          the sound
—these are corresponding sides

of a perfect union—
                    now you’re watching me,

I’m sure—

                         but what could I say

to you, except goodbye?
                        Your hair is down
in waves, wind
                        moving through—

and I,  down on one knee,
                                    am fastening

the padlock to the base
                            of the doors, now
joined together.

                          Everything is aligned,
in place—
                                        this is

the moment. Testing

                                    the integrity
of a locked door—tremors

in my reflection.
                          Who? 

                        —these are not angels.
Goodbye.

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Lawrence Di Stefano is a writer and photographer. He is currently enrolled in the MFA program at San Diego State University. He likes to roller skate.