Low Tide

The mattress was heavy, a beast on the floor,

I haven't moved it since you walked out the door.

I flipped the whole thing with a grunt and a shove,

to bury the place where we pretended at love.

But the underside's mapped with a salt-rimmed ring,

a brownish and jagged and permanent thing.

From the nights when the radiator hissed at the wall,

and we didn't get up for anything at all.

It won't scrub away with a brush or some soap,

it’s a stain on the foam where we ran out of hope.

The sun hits the floorboards, a blindingly white,

sharp little shard of a very long night.