The Tight Jaw, Or, The Edge of the Cliff

The bag, it's heavy.

Too heavy. The plastic

cuts, a thin, red line

into my fingers. Drastic,

I know, to feel this much

about some kale, some milk.

But then her voice,

soft as old silk,

"Are you okay, dear?"

And my throat just closed.

A trap door slamming shut.

My face froze.

The pressure builds,

behind the eyes,

a hot, thick dam

where everything lies.

I stare at the counter,

a single crumb,

grey, almost invisible.

My lip goes numb,

a tiny twitch, a quiver.

No, not now.

Not here.

Just swallow. Just figure

it out. Just breathe.

But the air tastes thick,

like pennies, like rust.

This desperate, fragile trick

of holding it in.

The jaw aches.

The muscles scream.

Just don't. Just don't break.

Not for kale. Not for her.

Not for this.