Point

The radiator stopped its clicking.

The silence in the kitchen

is a heavy sort of quiet.

I am leaning on the table

with my head in my hands.

The bone is pressing hard

against the grain of the wood.

I can feel it pulse—

a slow, rhythmic thud

that doesn't belong to the house.

My sweater is worn through

at the point.

The skin there is white and dry,

like a bit of ash

that forgot to blow away.

It aches in a way

that feels very old.