What Sticks
This is not a poem of leaving
those velveteen branches or that frowning
hedge at the yard’s edge. This is not about the brushes left
unwashed in the sink. They are already
forgotten, outside the frame. But see how the yellow paves
the bristles like something wanting
to remain? Once, you reached for my hands
like you had just remembered
a name. And I think it has almost
worked—smudging the exile around
your eyes, blending the lines
into a brighter color. I want to tell you
how my hands have already changed.
There’s a song my fingers wrote for you
but my left-hand waltz won’t find lines
the right shade of purple. And around
the house I sprinkled allspice and almost
felt your wooden spoon, almost remembered
something you said about pocketed hands
and split seams. There’s a wanting
in vacant spaces the morning paves
with counted days and already
flavorless foods. Those couches I left
will never miss me. I told you about a frowning
city skyline and nothing, no one, leaving.