Someone Else's Damp

I lifted the towel from the hook and the hem

hit cold against my wrist—that dark, wet edge—

and I stopped. Standing there in the steam

for a full minute. Something got dredged

that I had filed as finished.

You left them on the bed. Wet. Heavy.

Right in the center, always the center.

I said something about it once, said it badly,

too fast, too sharp, and you laughed and let the anger

just sit there. That's the part that still catches.

This towel smells like cedar and someone's soap.

It isn't yours. I know that.

But I stood there holding the damp, the slope

of terrycloth against my wrist, and sat

with it a full minute before I moved.