Soft Spot

I am afraid to breathe too deep

in case the expansion of my ribs

startles the weight against my chest.

The room is a cavern of shadows,

smelling of milk and laundry soap.

A small, damp hand has closed

around my thumb like a trap I never want to leave.

I look down and see the blue veins

winding through the paper of the eyelid,

as delicate as a single sewing thread

holding a whole life together.

I feel my pulse in my throat,

too loud, too fast, too much for this quiet.