The Spill

I carry the tray with both hands now,

like it’s a bomb or a sleeping bird.

I remember the lecture hall—and how

the silence was the loudest thing I heard.

I slipped on the wax. My backpack gave way.

The zipper split open like a big, dumb mouth.

Tuna and tampons. What can you say?

Everything I owned was heading south.

My corduroy pants made a swishing sound

as I gathered the crusts and the cotton and pride.

It’s funny—well, no. I just stayed on the ground

wishing the floor would open up wide.