Let me tell you what I can do.

I can drive my standard 
down Bread Loaf mountain
and never touch the brakes
until the last defiant curve.

I can find sand dollars
with my toes and 
hermit crabs with my fingers
and slide them into to a child’s bucket.

I can make a cookie -
You’d choose it for your last meal:
Crisp edges and a chewy center,
Butterscotch Oatmeal Walnut

I can make a meal 
from empty cabinets
and fill a dining room table 
on Easter and Thanksgiving.

I can change a tire,
Unclog drains,
Find studs, 
Replace filters.

I can make chicken soup,
Send that card,
Pay those bills,
Remember everyone’s birthday.

And.

I cannot leave my house
with my dress fully zipped.
And at the end of all I do,
I cannot unzip myself.

It all comes down 
to this one small gesture,
the small seedling moment
that rifts my stony, stoic existence.

It is the weight of the hand
against my back, tugging downward,
breaking me open,
It is all that follows.

And all that I can do
Is silenced
by the quiet clicks
of the one thing
I cannot.