Stay

The sink is full of sluggish, soapy foam.

A moth is spinning in the center,

its wings clumped into two wet rags.

I reach for the switch of the disposal.

I hear the motor hum, a low-bellied threat

waiting to pull the gray world down.

But I see the legs twitching in the scum,

the matted hair against the steel.

I turn the faucet off and let it float.