Residual

The closet door has been swollen shut for weeks,

keeping the draft from biting at the hall.

I yanked the handle until the wood gave a groan,

spilling a heavy heap of wool across the floor.

The jacket still holds the shape of a shoulder.

When I lifted it, the air went thick and gold—

a sharp bite of cedar and that cheap, spicy musk

he used to splash on before he hit the door.

I pressed my face into the rough, dark weave.

There’s a slick, gray sheen along the inner edge,

where skin met fabric, day after day,

leaving a ghost of grease that won't wash away.