A plastic Frida Khalo Day of the Dead skull
with a gold chain drilled into the cranium
that threads two silver keys.
The crimson grin of teeth although
the powder blue's worn through -
leaves traces around the jaw, worn
away from years of locking and unlocking
and sometimes the skull, bone once more
rests in the pocket to be reached for –now and then,
a worry bead, a talisman.
Two can lead each other astray.
An idea can catch fire
or turn into a mirror.
And the island in the arms of the mainland
freezes in the pulse of ultramarine water.
More of a rock, really - with pebbles like eggs
and grey-green sand on the landing shore.
A zig-zag of steps,
the island rises
Here is the skull,
here is the key.