[the weight of death]

antiope,
whose name makes me think of elephants,
hard and sharp on the tongue and then
that gentle rolling off the lips
   anti-ooope:
a name like strolling;
the way we walked the halls in high school
[always aware of eyes judging curves but never,
never aware of the weight]

this weight on my chest
i can feel every time i draw in breath,
exhale, bearing down like reprimanding stares
and even, my hand on the banister,
like i'd fall, maybe,
i'm so frail.
because it's always there, the way you never need
to remember a friend's name.

i go on diagnosing all the holes
but the truth is,
right breast pocket, the physical manifestation
of every death imagined,
realer even, than hospital beds and flu;
my daily reminder of the slowing thread, each time
i breathe in, exhale,
it pulls like a black wound, growing.