The Lease

The grocery bag is heavier than it should be.

I catch my reflection in the pharmacy window

and for a moment I see a ghost

standing in my coat.

It’s the knuckles first—

that blunt, swollen geography

I remember from my father’s hands

when he gripped the steering wheel.

My skin is bunching at the wrist

like a shirt that’s been through the wash

too many times on high heat,

shrinking away from the edge

of who I thought I was.