Weight Limits

The handle went first—a dry, plastic crack

that left me with nothing to hold.

I was reaching for parkas to hang on the rack

as the apartment grew bitter and cold.

It’s been up on that shelf since the winter of four,

collecting the dust and the dark.

I dragged it through terminals, across the salt floor,

leaving a jagged, black mark.

The zipper is seized on a loose, woolen thread,

a tooth made of rust in the jaw.

It’s heavy with things that I should have just said,

locked under a gravity law.