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Jeanne Marie Beaumont

Clothespin

You are a saint and a snap judgment. You cling on, servile creature of a persistent sort, grabbing shoulders and pinching the waists of pants. Your mouth opens wide as an infant alligator or ravenous chick. You grasp the matter in your jaws like a working dog and won’t let go even when the wind says Drop it. Forgive me, the brute who’s used you carelessly, clumsily, callously. How little I’ve learned about you who has been nearby all my life. Though I admire your efficient hinge, the smooth patina of your weathered wood, I bet you would like to hang me by my ear lobe given half a chance. I sense the tension. Your clenching is irrevocable and exact. Is that why you stay mute even to the saddest sock, the pillowcase, the misbranded bathing suit?