CAROLINE ENNIS
hinges

hinges.
useless beauty seems to unfasten brevity
and streak it in dusty slow motion.
a memory. a memory. . .
the clock has sprung a leak
and there is no sense of scent underwater.
when i sing to you
i can never seem to hit
the high notes...
but you nod your head anyway
and let the currents behind the eyes tell me
“that's all right.”

That's all right.

you'll never stretch
the hinges of this soul. try as you can.
and you try; you try.
no one else makes me shake like this-
you've almost broken the rust.
there is no scent underwater
and the clock in the dining room seems to leak its
useless time all over the tiles when i'm with you.
and its puddlings seem to muse of me,
“can time be beautiful?”
and i sing, while you nod and say,
“that's all right.”

That's all right.

and when you've gone,
as you are, as you are...
the pain is blue-dark and feathery-
like someone left the cage
open for my eclipse to fly away.
      My darkly feathered eclipse.

i drowned in my kitchen
when i was singing. when i was alone last night.
but the clock echoes with its good time,
the dolefully pealing lullaby dripping on the floor.
but that's all right.

That's all right.