Residual Grip

I’m reaching for the heavy stoneware plates

kept on the shelf I usually avoid.

A guest is coming who I know I hate,

a dinner date I’m trying to enjoy.

My sleeve slides down and reveals the mark,

a smudge the color of a bruised peach skin.

You grabbed me when the street went suddenly dark

and the traffic noise began to close us in.

It’s a thumbprint bloom, a yellowed, fading ghost

of where you held me so I wouldn't fall.

I’m setting out the napkins for a host

who shouldn't be inside my house at all.