Scrub

The bleach foam hits the faucet base and turns

a curdled sort of yellow, like an old bruise

that's finally quitting. My nails are soft—

well, white and water-logged—from the fumes.

And then I saw it. Coiled in the drain,

a long, dark strand that isn't mine.

Some ghost who lived here, shedding cells and pain,

leaving a piece of her life for me to find.

I keep scrubbing. The phone is in the hall,

vibrating against the wood. I won't go.

I’d rather stay here on my knees, small,

scouring out the things I shouldn't know.