How Much Water a Thing Can Hold

The bag was cheap, one of those drawstring duffels

you buy meaning to replace,

and I was two flights up when my arms

went past numb into just weight, just the sheer

insistence of it.

The seam split on the landing.

Not a dramatic thing — a slow one,

the bag just stating its position

and everything going back down the stairs

in a long heavy slide.

I sat on the top step.

A sleeve had caught on the banister rail

and was dripping onto the concrete below —

steady, patient, making its small mess

with total commitment.

I didn't move for a while.

I don't know what I was waiting for.

Eventually I carried it all back up

one piece at a time,

the bag last, empty,

the split seam hanging open

like it was still deciding something.