The Column

I have spent twelve hours acting as a hinge,

folding over the keyboard, bending for the bags,

reaching up to the high shelf for the cereal box

that the kids can never find on their own.

When I finally drop onto the rug behind the sofa,

the house seems to tilt and then snap back into place.

There is a sound like dry kindling breaking,

a deep, internal 'pop' that vibrates in my teeth,

and for a second, I can’t remember how to breathe.

I just stay there with the carpet fibers against my ear,

smelling the faint scent of dust and old wool.

The vertebrae are sliding back into their notches,

one by one, like a deck of cards being squared

by a dealer who is finally ready to go home.