Fine Mesh

The drawer sticks until it gives,

spilling a lighter and this scrap of ghost.

It smells like currants and the year

we thought we could preserve anything.

I crushed the berries with a wooden spoon

but the seeds are stubborn.

The juice seeps through the muslin weave,

a dark, bruising ink

that finds the cracks in my cuticles.

The sugar is starting to smoke on the burner.

I look at my hands, stained like a thief’s,

and realize I’ve forgotten

how to make anything sweet.