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Dear Doorknob

I turned you and you slipped off—cold, heavy

       brass in my bewildered hand
       as your counterpart

dropped on the other side, baritone clunk
against the hardwood,
               nothing to say but
       what rose to my lips: "Whoops."

I wobbled from wine, so

               sliding your spindle
through the spindle hub

wasn't easy, the other guests
tipsy in the living room, oblivious

       to my clumsy handiwork—that goes into
this that
       like this.

               There is a click, a round
               gold sound that tells me

       I fixed you.

O, if only
you could return the favor, repair this
               small defect of my mind,

some shoddy
       wiring with the on/off switch
       that sinks me

       mercilessly into darkness
               no matter where the sun is.

David Hernandez

The Threepenny Review

Summer 2012

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