The Weight

You carry
a huge black piano
through the streets.
It fell from the sky.
You caught it
and did not
crumple
like the cat
you once saw in a cartoon.
You caught it
and stayed straight.
You carry it home
each day.

At night
you lay with your face
to the ceiling,
arms stretched out from your sides
like a winged insect
pinned to a board.
The pillow,
the fat hand,
is held tight
to your mouth and nose.
You panic,
push,
shove from inside,
try to twitch the finger,
the toe
that will allow you
to flail,
to wake,
to speak just one word in the dark.