Antiseptic

The nurse drags the cotton ball in a slow circle,

leaving a streak of rust against my inner arm.

It smells like the school basement after a flood,

like every scraped knee I was told to be brave for.

I remember my mother blowing on the sting,

the orange stain blooming on the white gauze.

Now I just watch the needle find the vein,

waiting for the cold rush to start the repair

of a body that keeps forgetting how to hold together.