The hinge

There are secret chambers to the heart
not found in any textbook on anatomy.
The routine beat is our slow footfall
as we pass by its many mansions.

In some we store treasures we visit on occasion:
unique, glorious, private repertoires of intimacy
that we unveil only in the immediate, undeniable
presence of love. In others we hide monsters:
prejudice, frustration, grudge, insecurity, self-loathing.
The door to that chamber is rarely touched.
It rests ajar, the hinge rusted stiff with neglect.

But, from time to time, it fascinates us,
beguiling us with possibility.
We pick scabs of rust from its hinge,
oil it until the oil, blood red with rust,
spills on the floor and stains our hands,
and discover monsters need no invitation
once the door will open easily,
and are dumbstruck and paralysed with horror
as they swing grinning on the hinge.