Teeth

I was on the couch

and they didn't change the channel.

The scene played—

the body on the table,

the hands reaching,

and then the sound,

the metal teeth

coming together,

precise and final,

a sound so exact

it seemed to close

something inside me too,

seemed to seal

something that shouldn't be sealed,

and my body knew

before my mind caught up,

knew that sound

meant ending,

meant the end of ending,

meant something locked shut

that can't be opened again.

I asked them to rewind.

They said no.

I asked them to change it.

They were already watching the next scene.

Now I hear it

in quiet moments—

that zipping sound,

that metal closure,

that sound that means

you're done,

you're finished,

you're no longer.

I can't unhear it.

The teeth stay with me,

the precision of that fastening,

the way death sounds

when television decides

to show us exactly how it sounds,

when someone doesn't warn you,

when you're just sitting there

on a couch

and suddenly you know

what that sound means

and you can't

unknow it.