The tremor in my hand

The tremor in my hand,

or just the cube,

a clumsy slip. It skittered,

paused, then settled,

small white monument,

on the Formica counter.

I watched it. Didn’t stoop.

The cold, a small surrender.

A spreading sheen,

reflecting the dull kitchen light.

The edges blurring,

like a bad memory

you try to hold, but it just

thins, goes vague.

And then,

just there, at the wet edge,

a dark, fine hair. Not mine.

Or maybe it was. Who knows.

It just lay there,

a tiny flag,

trapped in the widening pool.

A stain I can wipe up, sure.

But the impression,

that brief, cold, disappearing thing,

it’s etched deeper than any water.