The Slight Shift

Faded flowers on the rug,

their loops worn thin,

almost gone.

Grandma’s breath,

a warm flannel ghost,

behind me on the couch.

You just tell them, she said,

it was an accident.

You didn’t mean to.

The glass. The noise.

But I did.

Mean to, I mean.

A little.

My small hand felt heavy,

lying still there,

in the quiet air after.

The truth, a sharp pebble

swallowed whole,

a strange new weight,

just under the ribs.