A Bag

All I needed was a bag
To carry the weight in.
The weight that I'd been balancing on my head for years so that my neck had become crooked and buckled.

All I needed was a bag
To carry the dark in that
I have held in my mouth
For so many months making my breath bitter,
My words so unctuous and acidic that I could
No longer stomach them.

All I needed was a bag
To carry the emptiness that had been lodged
In my chest like a hunk of shrapnel from some
forgotten battle against an enemy that'd never really existed.

All I needed was a bag
And it was you who handed me one.

Not a cheap plastic thing from a chain-supermarket,
That would snap under the pressure. No.
The bag you handed me was tried and tested.
Faded canvas with two firm handles and
a logo of a now closed-down museum, where you had once worked.
You held it out to me and said:
"Here. You can use this."

And I did.

I placed the things inside and we took a handle each.

After a while, you told me to put the bag down but I was reluctant.
You insisted and when I looked inside we found it was empty.