Centrifugal Force

The bedroom air is a wet wool sweater

I can't quite pull over my head.

I reached for the chain, gave it a yank,

and the motor started to groan.

It didn't bring a breeze, just a heavy

gray pelt that let go of the wood

and landed right where my face should be.

It’s thicker than lint—a felted, matted

shedding of every winter I spent

hiding under these sheets.

It looks like something that used to have a pulse.

I don't want to touch it.

I just want to lie here and watch the blades

spin their naked, yellowed edges

into the dark.