Remainder

The oak dresser didn't want to move.

It groaned across the floor, shedding dust

and a penny from the year we lived in the basement.

There, pinned against the radiator's white rib,

was a single, stiff black whisker.

It’s brittle. It feels like a piece of dry pine

when I roll it between my thumb and my forefinger.

You’ve been under the hydrangea for six summers,

but here is a part of your face I missed.

I expected to feel a sudden, sharp grief.

Instead, I just wondered how long it had been waiting

in the dark, while we walked over it every single day,

forgetting the way you used to lean your weight

against the back of our knees.