Residuals

The November sun is a low, hard glare

cutting through the dust in the kitchen air.

It hits the sliding door at a sharp slant,

revealing the ghosts of what we can’t

wipe away with a spray and a rag.

There’s a forehead smudge, a greasy sag

where someone leaned to watch the rain,

leaving a dull, oil-slicked stain.

A palm print shows a rainbow arc,

a map of a body left in the dark.

It’s been months since that glass was clean,

held in the light of the shift in the scene.