The Slant

The glass in the kitchen door

turns the backyard into a mirror

once the sun goes down.

I let out a long, slow breath

and saw her standing there—

not her ghost, but the way

the corners of my mouth

have started to give up on the world.

It’s a sharp, downward slope,

a gravity I inherited

without ever signing the papers.

I touched the cold pane,

trying to smooth out a face

that has finally decided

whose side it’s on.