Weight Limit

I watched a man haul his kid up the flight,

her head on his shoulder, her eyes squeezed tight.

My own knees gave a sharp, plastic click

like a deadbolt turning or a magician's trick.

I’m trying to move this dresser alone,

feeling the weight in the marrow and bone.

The last time I felt the world leave my feet,

the air smelled of Luckies and cold winter sleet.

His jacket was rough, his detergent was cheap,

as he carried me through the fog of my sleep.

Now I’m the one who has to hold up the frame,

and nobody’s left who calls out my name.