Rewind

The show wasn't mine to watch

until the sound—zipper sliding down,

metal teeth clicking shut.

I rewound. Just that. Just the casual

finality of it, the way nothing

argues back, the way silver

decides and doesn't look again.

It's in my ear now, living there,

the way I can't unknow it,

the way I keep hearing it

even when the television's off.

At night. In traffic. In the middle

of someone's sentence, that sound

plays back, that zip,

the thing closing all the way,

sealing what's done.

I rewound it three times yesterday.

The sound doesn't change.

It closes the same way every time.

And I'm reaching for the remote again

like I'm looking for proof

that there's something after that,

some word that comes next,

but the sound just stops there,

and everything after it

is just the television's hum,

and me, waiting

for the zipper to open.