Identity Theft

The sun is slanting through the kitchen blind,

a golden rake that drags the dust to light.

It shows me everything I’ve left behind

or tried to wipe away to keep things right.

There on the white laminate of the door,

a whorl of oil is trapped beneath the grit.

My brother’s thumb—a ghost from weeks before,

back when he helped and made a mess of it.

It’s such a small, intrusive piece of him,

a greasy map of where his hand has been.

The light begins to fade and grow more dim,

but I can still see where the ridges spin.

I should just take a rag and clear the space,

to return the cabinet to its blank, cold state.

But it’s the only sign in this quiet place

that someone else was here to share the weight.