Structural Integrity

The bookshelf left a dust-line on the floor

like a gray ghost of the things I meant

to hide. I pushed it back to find the war

still etched in the plaster where I went

down. It’s a crater shaped like a fall,

where I stayed until the air went cold.

There isn't enough paint to fix this wall

or hide how the story was told.

I remember the bag of frozen lima beans

sweating through the paper on the tile.

The ice was sharp against the purple sheens

of a face I hadn't used in a while.