Sublet

Emily Kedar

I come back
to find my grandmother’s
pink geraniums dead. The only
living being
that knew us both
and had no tongue to lie.

I drag my finger
across the glass face
of the coffee table. My thumbprint
warped and elongated, presses
down into dust.

I rearrange the stones
I’d left on the window sill
back the way they were.
The coffee grinder’s bust, so

I head out
into the light snow
of morning, my feet landing
step after step
in someone else’s footprints.