I zip up my green coat that my step-mom
bought me for Christmas last year and brave
the winter air. Somewhere along my path the
zipper’s teeth unhook. My belly bare open I cringe.
I rip. The zipper won’t loosen. Josh has to force it apart
in the library parking lot. I am his kid. Standing arms limp,
face distraught. Just use the snaps for now, he says. We walk
to the basement so he can show me Pott’s archives. I feel lose.
Apart from it all. I stare out the glass wall at the mountains.
They piece together like a pop-up book. Each curve a piece
of the other. At the bottom they melt into the ground.
Their bodies one eternal round.