Indigo Stage

The steam is still clinging to the glass

when I peel the towel away.

The dishwasher door caught me square

three nights ago, a sharp metal bite

that’s finally stopped screaming.

Now it just itches under the denim.

A deep plum center, jagged and heavy,

surrounded by a sickly yellow ring

that bleeds out toward my knee

like a watercolor someone tried to fix

and only made worse.