Fastened

The car has been a tomb in the driveway

for three days. The dust on the dash

is thick enough to write a name in.

I pull the strap across my chest.

The nylon is frayed at the edge,

a rough, gray tongue

licking the skin of my collarbone.

Then the snap.

The hollow, metal teeth

finding their throat.

It is the loudest thing in the world,

a hard black dot

ending the sentence of the week.