Tension

The cabinet handle is hanging by a screw.

I looked for a screwdriver but found

a hairbrush instead, clogged with someone's

old, brown curls. And this.

It’s been in the junk drawer so long the rubber

is weeping. Or maybe that's just rot.

When I pull it, it smells like a match

struck in a damp basement—sulfur and age.

I wanted to bind the wood together,

but the band is too tired to hold.

It just sits in my palm, a sticky, beige circle,

and I’m afraid if I stretch it any further

it’ll snap and leave a welt across my wrist.