The Dam

The marinara is a crime scene on the linoleum,

red and thick around the shards of glass.

The supermarket hums like a slow soliloquy

while I wait for the burning heat to pass.

'It’s okay, honey,' she says, grabbing a mop.

That kindness is a fist against my windpipe.

I feel the swell behind my eyes start to stop

before it can break, before the grief is ripe.

My glasses are sliding down a slick nose.

The bridge feels like a lead weight, heavy and cold.

I pull my shoulders up in a rigid pose

and hold onto the breath I’m not allowed to fold.