Last night I dreamed
I was holding the world again.
Not the globe from elementary school,
the real thing,
with oceans sloshing against my collarbone
and earthquakes chewing up my wrists.
The therapist asked,
“Does it feel heavy?”
and I laughed,
because no one ever asks Atlas
if he’s tired.
Somewhere,
you were packing a suitcase
with the same precision
you once used on my heart.
Fold, tuck, close.
Disaster, neatly zipped.
I told the therapist
I wanted to set the world down,
but I was afraid
it would roll off the table
and break something important.
Like your posh espresso machine,
my mother’s knees,
the sky.
So instead I balance it,
smiling like it doesn’t ache,
the way women carry grocery bags
or families carry secrets:
both arms shaking,
waiting for something to finally drop,
pretending they didn’t hear it shatter.
Everyone insisting it’s just the weather.