Mercury

Kid's hot. Midnight cabinet.

Behind the Tylenol—the mercury,

the kind they stopped making.

Silver line at 98.6

from whenever somebody last held it

to the light and believed.

My mother shook hers down

with a wrist snap like casting something out.

I grabbed the digital instead.

Green blink. Done.

Put the mercury back.

Can't use it. Can't throw it out.

It sits on the shelf being right

about a question nobody's asking.