“After Party” by Jacqueline West

Pigment lingers
in the weave of thick paper,

the dusty blood ring
of the wineglass.

The kiss-traced napkins
tossed in piles

like the wrappings of secrets,
disappointingly empty.

Ashes trenched
in the music shelf

have slipped through
the white keys, bedded in whorls

of someone else’s skin;
passed on.

Words leave no residue.
She can’t read their smeared

insistence on the table, dissolute traces
seeping deep in the carpet,

whispers and praises,
conversational treachery.

How little we can know
of each other.

She stacks the plates,
brushes away

the dew gathered
under an abandoned cup.

It dries slowly
on her blank palm.