Between Bruises & Blooms

Nobody tells you
the dead follow detectives home.

Not like ghosts
in white dresses.

Nothing so mercifully obvious.

They follow
in smaller ways.

A photograph
that will not leave
the back of your eyelids.

A child’s bedroom.

A mother’s scream.

The sound
of somebody asking
why.

They follow you
through the front door,

sit beside your children
at dinner,

crawl beneath the sheets
between you
and the person
you promised
you would come home to.

You wash your hands.

Change your clothes.

Leave the badge
on the dresser.

But some things
cannot be removed
with soap.

Some cases
live beneath the skin.

And every morning
you button your shirt
over yesterday’s ghosts,

kiss your family goodbye,

and walk back out

to meet
someone else’s
worst day.