Humidity

The wood has swollen in the August heat,

marrying the drawer to the nightstand frame.

I’ve got one foot against the baseboard,

pulling until the joints start to scream

a dry, wooden protest.

It gives way by an inch—

just enough to see the grave of things.

A dead watch battery, a take-out menu

from a place that burned down in '09,

and the keys to a house I don't own anymore.

I’m sweating, trying to reach inside

for something I probably shouldn't find.

The past is always like this:

holding onto its secrets until you’re forced

to break the furniture to get them out.