Tremor

The pitcher was heavier than it looked.

Or maybe my arm is just becoming

a separate thing from the rest of me.

It started with a hum in the elbow,

then the glass hit the plastic rim—

clack-clack-clack—a frantic Morse code.

Everyone stopped talking.

The silence in the kitchen was so heavy

it felt like it was pressing on my lungs.

I watched a single drop of sweat

hang off the end of my nose,

refusing to fall, just swinging there.

I gripped the handle with both fists.

I don't even know that person's name.

I just wanted to give them a drink.