Terminal Velocity

The box of magazines was too heavy.

National Geographics from ninety-four

suddenly weighed more than my pride.

I felt the tendon in my wrist give a little,

a quiet surrender to the floor.

Later, the pickles slipped right through.

Green brine and glass across the tile,

creeping into the grout like a bitter tide.

It isn't just the jar that's breaking—

it's the way the world pulls everything down

when you stop trying to hold it up.