Residual

The shouting stopped an hour back.

The house is settling into the black.

I reach for the faucet, a simple chore,

but the water spills across the floor.

My thumb is jumping—a nervous beat

against the glass in the kitchen heat.

It rattles on granite, a trapped fly’s wing.

I am sick of every sharp, jagged thing

you said before you slammed the door.

I’m shaking still. I don’t know what for.