The Slow Pull

I reached for the space heater cord

and a sound came out of me—

a short, wet grunt of effort

just to bring my weight to the floor.

My hand on the steering wheel earlier

looked like a glove that had been worn

in the rain and dried too close to the fire.

The knuckles are thick, the skin mapped

with a white, dry dust at the elbow.

I am becoming a collection of small noises.

A hinge that needs oil, a floorboard

that remembers every time you step on it.