Inheritance

I hit my foot on the mahogany base,

a claw that is carved into wood.

It’s taking up all of the narrow space

where a cheaper table should.

It smells like lemon and years of wax

and the dust in the back of a drawer.

It’s holding the weight of the heavy facts

I can’t carry around anymore.

The grain is dark and the finish is scarred

where she used to set down her keys.

It’s making the living feel brittle and hard

and bringing me down to my knees.