Two Minutes

The radiator is hitting the pipes

with a hammer made of steam.

Clank. Clank.

The sound of a window being broken

slowly, from the outside in.

I’m sitting on the edge of the tub,

my heels resting on the bathmat

where the pile is worn to the backing.

The smell of the grout is sharp—

damp dirt and old bleach.

I swallow, and there it is:

the copper snap of a loose molar

wiggling against the back of my tongue.

I look down at the plastic stick.

The second blue line is dark as a bruise,

filling up the little window

until the air in here is gone.