Impossible Mark

My favorite blouse. The pale silk,

which, I thought, could handle anything.

Then the coffee, dark and sudden.

Stupid, just tossing it in the wash.

Now it's set. A muddy, stubborn ghost

on the fabric, faded but still there.

Like a record of some past stupidity.

I’ve scrubbed it. With soap, with chemicals,

with my thumbnail, until the silk frayed.

It just clings. A small, brown planet

spinning on my chest, mocking me.

A perfect imperfection. Permanent.