Inventory

Both palms flat against the bathroom tile,

eleven p.m., the light doing nothing

kind.

My brother spent the whole day

with his jaw set.

I carried the lamps.

He took everything heavier

and didn't explain why.

The storage unit smelled like rubber

and old carpet and decisions.

We filled it.

We drove back separately.

Now the lower back—

pressing into the tile

trying to find the vertebrae,

count what the day put there.

The skin pulls differently

in this light.

I push harder.

Something shifts.

Not enough.