Oath
Back from vacation and work trips and sun
and not enough water.
Too many public spaces
where the proximity of the seats forces your skin against others,
too many steps in high heels—
but you’ve got to keep up the pace,
you’ve got to keep up the small talk—
and really, two weeks
without more than five hours of sleep at a time.
I’ve made myself sick with exhaustion.
My mind, thick and lazy.
Chills that settle and stay.
Two days of fits and stops
and still chasing rest—
so depleted it makes one curious about death.
Seems like an invitation,
then a promise.
In this state,
I think a lot about drowning.
And then:
my mother-in-law’s fur coat.
She gifted it to me
when she moved to Florida.
I won’t need it. It’s expensive. You should have it.
It felt like a curse.
Not just for the space it would take up,
but for how it was acquired.
What it was supposed to mean.
An object is never an oath.
A gift never guarantees the giver.
I imagine wearing it inside-out,
the sable pressed to my skin,
prickling as I sweat.
The lining exposed—
caked, in this vision,
with dirt and blood.
It remains heavy.
On me.
On the mind.
I think of women in fur coats
jumping off cruise ships
into cold black water—
thinking they'd be warm.
But the weight drags them under.