Too Heavy to Lift

He swung her up,

small thing, sleeping,

head tipped back, a trust

so absolute it felt like weeping.

Her small hand dangled.

I stood there, watching,

the plate still warm in my hands.

When was the last time

I was just lifted,

no effort, no thought?

The scratch of wool

on a cheek, maybe.

The surprising heat

of someone else's palms

under my knees,

making me weightless.

Now, my own weight

feels like a secret,

something I carry,

all the time.

And no one would even try.

It’s too much.