Stuck

The metal came off in my palm,

small and cold, with a screw still attached.

I held it like I might find

the way to put it back,

like the weight of it might tell me something.

The door swung open behind it,

cabinet gaping,

the hole where the latch had been

a small dark mouth.

I stood there with the broken piece.

Not anger yet. Not yet.

Just the flat fact of it:

things break. You reach for them,

and they break in your hand.

I set the metal on the counter.

Left the door open.

Went to find the tools I don't own,

looked up how to fix it on my phone,

closed the browser after the first result.

Tomorrow I'll move the dishes to another shelf.

Tomorrow I'll get used to it.

But today the door hangs there,

and I keep looking at the hole,

the place where the mechanism failed,

the exact spot where I should have been

gentler, more careful,

where I should have known better

than to ask it to hold.