A Poem by Mark Day

The shear line

The key fitted snugly into its slot,
its teeth nudging the pins to the precise boundary
of the shear line. I twisted my wrist
and the lock spun smoothly
in its cylinder. I heard the rasp
of the deadbolt retracting.

I saw the broken line of light
pour from the hallway
through the crack into the night.

But sometimes a key will not turn.

We waited on the doorstep for the locksmith.
You twisted and twisted, but the lock did not give.
You pulled until the key bent in the lock,
its gold disc hanging from the shaft
like a flower about to fall from its stem.

I saw a shadow pass behind the door.

The bolt withdrew, and I felt
the key turn in my hand.

Mark Day works in the charity sector and lives in London. He studied English literature at university and began writing poetry seriously in 2026. His work has been published in Defenestration Magazine.