Stains on linen

I wipe the spill,

the rag rough and stained

sour lemon, grease, yesterday’s fights.

Threads stiff with memory,

folded wrong, edges frayed—

a mute witness to late-night phone calls

and glasses knocked to the floor.

The kitchen smells like apology,

yellow linen soaked

in all the small slips

no one cleaned up before dawn.