The Heavy Lift

The tea has grown a translucent skin,

a pale gray film on the surface.

I said it to my mother just to get

off the phone, a debt paid in three syllables

so I could hang up and finally eat.

But here, looking at the salt

on your collar, it’s a shield I’m holding up

to stop the ceiling from dropping.

The words are the same, but the weight

is a different kind of math. I’m just

trying to keep the walls from leaning in

while the water in the mug goes cold.