She is reaching, her fingers stretched to its brink like
a singer at her highest note, trying with all her might,
screeching at the closeness, wincing, her fingers almost
wrapped around it. She needs this can, on the top
shelf, so high, in the kitchen cabinet. She reaches like a drought
has stolen every ounce of rations, as if this can were her
only means of survival. She is on her tiptoes.
Slanted forward, she slightly hops.
She can’t get up. No more strength, no more song.
The can is out of reach, out of sight, it will not be had, will not be taken.
It refuses to be what she thought it was.