Unbroken Skin

The knuckles split like parched-out ground,

a map of red and sudden pain.

I tried to turn the jar around

and felt the sting of winter’s grain.

I reached beneath the dripping pipe

to find the tub with furred-up dust.

It’s thick and heavy, old and ripe,

a barrier for skin and rust.

I smear the grease across the bone,

to keep the heat from leaking out.

A quiet way to live alone

without the need to scream or shout.