Residual

I thought I'd swept the corners out

and bleached the cabinets white.

But when I pulled this sweater from the

box, it caught the kitchen light.

A single strand, a wire of black

is tangled in the gray.

I try to pluck the memory back

but it’s determined to stay.

It’s wound around a pill of wool,

a stubborn, quiet vine.

I feel the static and the pull

of a ghost that isn't mine.