Snap Point

The bills, old mail, a stack

bound tight, almost a year.

I pulled, felt a slight crack,

a tiny, sudden fear.

The brittle ring, it held

that greyed list, grocery note,

then pinged, it almost yelled.

Something stuck inside my throat.

Split on the wood, a dark,

thin line where it gave way.

A sudden, small, sharp mark

on the ordinary day.

One curled half, black and tight,

another piece, just stretched,

and now the muted light

shows where my own pull fetched

more than I meant.