Cord

The cord barely reached—garage outlet

to the speakers, orange rubber taut

across the grass. I wanted to say let

me fix that, but I didn't, and I thought

about it all night. Everyone stepped

right over. Sandals, bare feet, a kid

running laps across the lawn. Except

for me, nobody watched it. What I did

with the party: stood by the garage door

and monitored the cord. Someone's joke

landed big—I missed it. Someone poured

me a drink I held for an hour. Spoke

to maybe three people, always angled

toward the orange line in the grass.

A woman in wedges practically dangled

over it. The kid's seventh pass

and I almost said something. Didn't.

The music played. The cord held fine.

I drove home carrying a tightness that isn't

mine to name. The whole night, that line

stretched across the yard was the only thing

I gave my full attention to. It never snapped.

I keep thinking about that—how everything

held together. How I'm the one who cracked.