Saturated

The salt is heavy in the air.

I sit beneath the stove-top light

and watch the oil begin to flare

across the brown bag in the night.

It spreads out in a perfect spot,

a dark and heavy kind of bloom.

It’s such a small and ugly blot

to be the center of the room.

The paper turns a sickly clear.

I see the grain of wood below.

The mess is all that’s left in here

with nowhere else for it to go.