Fixed Position

It’s a white stone tied to my elbow,

a dead branch I’m forced to carry

into the middle of the night.

When I turn, it hits the mattress

with the sound of a falling hammer.

Nobody wants to sign it anymore.

The ink is smeared into blue bruises,

and the cotton at the edge is fraying,

turning yellow with the salt of my skin.

It smells like a gym locker

and the slow, itchy rot of being still.

I am waiting for the saw

to bite through the shell and let the air

touch the limb that forgot how to be light.