The Weight of the Water

My sister’s mouth is open on the cushion.

She’s finally out.

I am pinned under the weight of this thing,

this tiny, breathing radiator.

My left arm went numb ten minutes ago

but I’m afraid to shift an inch.

I can see the pulse in the soft spot,

a little hammer under the skin.

It smells like that soap they use in hospitals,

clean and terrifyingly new.

If I move, the whole world might crack,

so I just sit here

and wait for my blood to stop moving.