The heat in the bedroom is heavy and flat

The heat in the bedroom is heavy and flat,

and I’m hunting for batteries under the mat.

The remote for the air is a plastic-cased lie,

and the sun is a hole in a white-beaded sky.

I pry off the cover and see the mistake,

a bloom of a poison that’s started to bake.

A forest of emerald, chalky and bright,

has swallowed the springs in the middle of night.

I scrape at the salt with the tip of my nail,

watching the hardware begin to turn pale.

The stain on my finger is stubborn and green,

the color of something that’s better unseen.