What the Floor Kept

Eleven days it lay there on the floor.

I stepped around it every morning, night—

not quite deliberate, not quite ignore,

more like the practiced management of sight.

The shape it held was his. The terrycloth

still kept the curve of where a shoulder was,

and I didn't want to lose it. That was what

I told myself, at least, because

you need a reason when eleven days

have passed and you still haven't moved the thing.

This morning I bent down. Lifted it. The space

beneath was bright—a small square, clearing

into something cooler than the rest,

a cleaner white I hadn't seen before.

I stood there with the towel pressed

against my front. The cold moved through the floor.