Carry On

The 6 AM flight is a weight in my chest.

I’m kneeling on the lid, forcing the air

out of the sweaters and the rolled-up socks.

The nylon is white at the seams,

strained like a lung that’s holding its breath.

The zipper teeth bite into a loose black thread.

I have to lean down and use my own incisors

to gnaw it free, tasting the bitter, cold metal

and the salt of the hands that packed it.