Oak Corner Scar

The oak dresser, too big for the hall,

smelled faintly of mothballs, a ghost

of linen folded, lavender sachets,

before we wrestled it from the garage's

damp shade.

We turned it, grunted,

then that sound –

a tearing, thin and sharp.

The corner scraped the door frame hard,

a white line blooming

on the varnish, deep and old.

Like skin that’s split,

revealing younger, paler wood beneath.

My thumb traced it,

a fresh wound on her memory,

a new geography of loss.

More real, somehow, than her last breath,

this raw, exposed bone

of what she left.