Marked

My sleeve still smells like it,

that rank animal wet,

the shaking-off of something

that didn't ask permission.

All day it's been with me,

soaked into the fabric,

into my skin probably.

The neighbor's dog doesn't apologize.

Neither do I.

I drove to work smelling like

something else's body,

something else's need to be dry,

to shed water like it was

poison.

The smell won't leave.

Not today.

Not with the sleeve still damp,

heavy, refusing the afternoon,

holding the shape of being

marked by something

you had no say in.