Stain

I watched the boy at the stop, holding his side,

gasping like he’d run a mile through the heat.

He looked at the girl to see if his lie

had landed somewhere near her feet.

I remember the dinner, the expensive white cotton,

and the way I tipped the glass until it bled.

I wanted her to see me, to feel forgotten

unless she followed where the liquid led.

In the laundry room, the salt was a gritty sand.

She rubbed the circle where the wine was deep.

The wet shirt stuck to my ribs like a hand.

It was a small, cold victory I meant to keep.