Rolling Boil

The kitchen smells like wet wool, or maybe

just my own coat drying against the radiator.

I stare into the pot where the yellow grease

circles up like tiny, slick eyes.

I didn't wait. I never do.

The broth scalded the roof of my mouth,

stripping the skin back in a ragged flap.

Now I can't taste the salt,

just the heat and the metal

of my own mistake.