The Sound Stays

Half-asleep at 11, the screen aglow,

a documentary about somewhere far below.

I didn't think it would touch me here.

Then the zipper sound. Specific. Clear.

My thumb froze on the remote.

The zipper on a body bag.

The TV glow. I can't look away or drag

myself from the room. Not because

I want to watch. But the sound has

already entered—opened a door

I didn't know was there before.

Death is mundane. It zips.

It's the sound of a seal, of lips

pressed together at the end,

of something final. I can't defend

myself from having heard it.

I'm still in that dark room.

The sound lives here now, sealed in the gloom,

in the pause before sleep,

in the coffee I drink,

in the space between breathing

where I pretend the world isn't so close

to my skin.