The Gritty Clean

I want the scent of your neck

to stop living in the cotton.

I bought the box with the mule team on it,

something harsh to burn the memory out.

I tripped.

The powder fanned across my boots

like a dry, chemical winter.

I tried to scoop it back with my hands.

Now the grit is wedged under my nails,

stinging the quick.

I’m still shaking the rug.

I’m still white with the effort of forgetting.