After the argument you make
to make me recheck the locks on our door, 
I remember the sketchy accident
advice to never admit fault—

though the evidence shows the 
undid deadbolt nearly let the bad one in 
with all his bad reasons for wanting in here. 

Still, we pat our pockets 
feeling for a key. 

And later, the TV bathes us as we sleep 
and I dream that we’re just people watching 
people watching people watching people watching. 

And I dream that each day is a wrong 
I don’t know how to right. 

And I dream that each day is a poem 
I don’t know how to write. 

And I dream that each day is a poem. 
I don’t know how to write.

Writer’s Notebook

The more I think about it, I think “Thesis”—though who am I to really say?—is a poem about security or the lack thereof in different senses of the word. The line is blurred between actual locks and metaphorical ones. Blame and fault are questioned in increasing paranoia as trust in self and others is eroded. Illusions are clung to and abandoned as there is seemingly nowhere to find sanctuary. The safety of sleep is even invaded. Dreams become nightmares and confessions. The poem itself is suspect as language and writing—as an act of meaning-making—becomes slippery and subverted. Ultimately, I think it’s a poem about being vulnerable and realizing we’re open to harm much more than we thought, that we’re passive in our own lives, and that we have less control and agency than we’d like to admit. Happy stuff.

About the writer