The Exact Tilt

The sink was full,

the counter streaked,

a few crumbs scattered,

small, ignored.

My hand, then, moved

in a tight, familiar arc,

caught them,

and my mouth, unbidden,

shaped the words,

a small, flat mantra,

"Waste not, want not."

And it wasn't my voice, not quite,

but the echo, a memory

of her apron, her stance,

the way her shoulders dipped

just so, a slight lean.

My fingers scrubbed

the steel, the sheen,

a small circle, then another,

the same exact tilt

of wrist, of head,

a pattern deeply bred.

It was a cold, clean shock,

that easy slide

into someone else's skin,

a second self,

a mirror I hadn't meant to keep.

The damp cloth smelled

of old soap,

and something like surrender,

a quiet, sudden render.

This inherited gesture,

a truth too close to home,

a truth I'd come to own.