The news from the shop was a cold flat no

The news from the shop was a cold, flat no.

I lay in the dark with a head full of heat,

listening to the house settle into its rot.

She came in without turning on the light.

The plate clinked against the nightstand.

Four squares of white bread,

the bologna slick and cold and honest.

I picked one up and saw the dent—

the ghost of her thumb where she pressed

the layers together, a small, soft mercy

left in the middle of the wreck.