Poetry

Hinge
- Robert Beveridge

You cut too deep

this time. You saw

yourself incapable, perhaps,

of continuance;

without doubt, silent.

 

You demurred, always,

when asked about the scars,

or answered something like:

“I walked through a rose-

bush. Silly, huh?”

 

You can't

explain this one away,

wrist to elbow torn, raw

like packaged meat

gone bad;

 

and your face, glazed

eyes that refuse

to blink, mouth twisted

in surprise

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