Seized

The latch is a fused, orange knot.

I threw my weight against the wood

until the hinges screamed for oil,

stuck in the heat of the lot.

My palms smell like a jar of old coins,

that copper-sour, metallic sweat.

The gate is part of the fence now,

immobile where the iron joins.

I pulled a flake off with my nail.

The white glove is ruined with the dust,

a bright, clinical streak of decay

on a hand that’s starting to fail.