Laundry

This morning my son left two wet footprints

on the bathmat, dark and flat

in the green fluff, one with a scrap

of brown bag pressed into it

like a bit of petal.

And I thought how, if anything

happened to him, that imprint

would remain, briefly,

shimmering in the shock

that aims a spotlight on the details of our world.

Folding laundry after your accident,

I sat on the floor by the basket of tousled clothes—

they had been washed and dried

while you were still unbroken—

and smoothed your empty shirts against my chest.