Saturation

The iron is stubborn tonight,

holding onto the charred remains

of the steak and the fat.

I press the yellow foam down hard,

hearing the small, wet gasps

of air escaping the cells.

It splits.

A jagged mouth opens in the center,

revealing the gray, slimy heart

that smells of dish soap and old lard.

I keep scrubbing with the halves,

my knuckles hitting the metal

where the cushion used to be.