Hinge

— with a phrase by Roger Reeves

At the long edge of the screen door keeping most of the flies out.

At the classroom door, smooth and tight fit. At the gate of the pigpen

             for the one pig in that now-abandoned village.

At one panel of the glass case with the little sandwiches sold

in the streets of Reynosa. Promise of fresh ham, avocado, and shredded cabbage

inside a bread roll half-wrapped in crisp white paper―delicate. Special.

A dozen lined just so against the glass framed in white-painted wood.

Searching for the hinge to the panel that opens.


Why is it always this hollow of want to which I return?

Haven’t I stuffed myself silly since? Don’t I earn enough now

to consume all the ham, avocado, and cabbage I could ever crave?


What is it with the boy who walks past the stand, holding the hand of his mother,

who keeps looking forward, ignoring what he cannot?


She has crossed them both back to the border’s Mexican side

for some doctor visit, no doubt, or perhaps for laundry detergent, aspirin,

a broom, essentials cheaper here where treats are sold outside for all to see.

The church tower stoic behind them.


What is it with these coils of hunger?

I’m exhausted by the reminders, tired of knowing

that wordless lack. I want to read hinge

without waking the boy who knows not to ask, not to nag,

who knows that as soon as he turns away,

it’ll be like the object was never there,

want then just the clammy warmth

between his and his mother’s hand.