Hinge
Maggie Dietz
Hinge
In a damp camel wool coat
The door-hinges creaked
Thickened with Winston smoke
Fresh snow on the fedora’s rim
He waited for them
Turning to dew in the kitchen
Until they came from their work
Steam rising from his shoulders
Assembling oranges and cloves
Like smoke
Losing the oranges, rusted as hinges
His eyes invisible
(Like bushes surrounded with bees)
Behind glasses frosted as flutes
They flocked to that place
In the safe cupboard
Where sturdy arms lifted them up
Where they waited
Their hands coated in cloves
For champagne
In the damp steam and smoke
For something to celebrate
Hanging like ornaments from him
His cheeks cold as bottles
In the palimpsest of memory
Brought up from the basement
They will hover like words
For an anniversary
In the arms of the father
Or some good news
After work in the evening
The adults would toast
When the past came home
For the first time
COPYRIGHT 2004 The Carolina Quarterly
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group
