Rust and Resin

The mailbox bit me. A jagged iron lip

tore the skin back from the knuckle.

I went digging for a cure

in the salt-crusted dark of the cabinet.

The dropper is dead. The rubber is a black,

melted sludge fused to the neck of the glass.

I had to use the pliers to break the seal,

to get to that orange-brown, chemical sting.

It pooled in the sink, a permanent stain

on the white porcelain.

The burn is the only thing in this room

that doesn't have a double meaning.