Grit

Days later.

My shoe, kicked off by the door,

still holds a secret.

Little grains, fine as flour,

but hard as glass, waiting.

I found a sprinkle in the laundry,

underneath clean socks, absurd.

It gets everywhere, doesn't it?

In the creases of the car seat,

tucked into the seam of a bag

I swore I'd emptied out.

Under the heel, a tiny pressure,

a constant, quiet reminder

of where I'd been.

And how it sticks.