The Screen

The fluorescent bulb hums a flat note

above the mirror in Stall Four.

I’m pulling the linen sleeve up,

checking the fit for a wedding

I don’t really want to attend.

There it is—the jagged little map

on my left elbow.

The screen door latch bit me in 1994,

a sharp, rusted tooth in the dark.

Now it’s just shiny, puckered skin

that stays white while the rest of me

turns the color of a brick

in the July heat.