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.