Extension

The dust on the top shelf

is a gray velvet I haven't touched

since the funeral.

My shoulders were locked doors

jammed by the salt in the air.

But I reached for the peaches today.

A heavy glass jar

with August written in a Sharpie fade.

I felt the bone in my arm

slide back into the socket—

a long, slow pull of wire

that didn't hurt.

The lid was cold.

My fingers didn't even twitch

when they took the weight.