Non-Biodegradable

The space heater came in a box too big for the hall.

I sliced the tape and the sound started then—

a high, thin shriek that climbed up the wall,

the friction of plastic like a dying pen.

Two white slabs of molded, beaded air

squeezing the metal unit in a tight, cold grip.

I pulled them out, and the static was everywhere,

a thousand tiny magnets making the fabric zip.

Small white circles clung to my wool sleeve,

stubborn as burrs from a summer field.

They don't belong here, and they never leave;

they are the parts of the world that won't ever yield.

I rubbed my arm and felt the grit in my teeth.

It’s a hollow material, a cheap, frantic ghost.

Everything solid has this lurking underneath,

this light, crushing weight that matters the most.