Hinge

They are leaning over the basin,

the white porcelain catching the spit.

I can see the three moles

arranging a small, dark map

at the base of the skull.

When they tilt their head,

the vertebrae pull tight against the skin,

stretching the grain of the neck.

A single hair, missed by the blades,

shivers in the draft from the vent.

It’s a fragile piece of architecture,

the way the head stays on.