Weight Without Gravity

The front door finally clicked shut,

and the casseroles are cooling on the counter.

They handed him to me like a fragile glass,

waiting for my face to shatter or soften.

I am holding seven pounds of warm demand.

He is a heavy, breathing blankness,

a small clock ticking against my chest

while I wait for a gear to catch inside me.

Under the thin, translucent scalp,

the soft spot pulses with a rhythmic push.

A heart beating right against the air,

and I am just a chair made of bone,

waiting for the feeling to arrive.