Kitchen History

The bathroom light is a cruel, white stare.

I’m trying to decide if the shirt

hides the way my posture has slumped.

Then I see it—the forearm,

where the hot grease jumped three years ago.

It’s a shiny, hairless ridge now,

puckered and tight like a melted candle

left too long on the sill.

A permanent record of a Tuesday night

when I was distracted by the rent

and forgot how fast oil can turn on you.