High Friction

The wool is thick and resists the hole.

I watch her from the dark of the hall,

her knuckles white and hard as walnuts

fumbling with the smooth plastic disk.

She doesn’t look up. She’s winning,

but the cost is written in the effort.

When she turns to take the stairs,

she grips the oak railing for balance.

The skin on the back of her hand

gathers like loose, translucent crepe paper,

sliding over the bone and staying there.

It’s a slow-motion collapse of the surface.