Talisman

The stone hit the floor

with the sound of a tooth

knocked loose in a fight.

I’d forgotten it was there,

hiding in the seam of my jeans

through twelve months of soap

and the hot breath of the dryer.

The denim is worn thin

right where my thumb used to rest,

a ghost-shape of a habit

I don't remember needing.

It’s cool against the tile,

gray and stubborn,

waiting for a pocket

that doesn't exist anymore.