Hinge

Hinge

Hinge

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A weekly poem, read by the author.
April 5 2000 3:00 AM

Hinge

All that weight
            hangs on a piece

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of metal, flush,
            matter-of-factly

against the jamb
            of a bedroom

door. Once, there
            was a birth,

later a death,
            between clamor:

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someone opens
            a pair of legs

and makes love,
            someone closes

a fist and fights
            their whole life;

all pending
            on a slender pin,

a backbone,
            solemn, almost

motherly quiet,
            then cries out.