Copper in the Aisle

The price of milk has gone up twenty cents.

I’m staring at the cartons in the case,

calculating all the small expense

of keeping up a steady, human face.

Then comes the heat, a sudden, heavy leak,

a drop of salt and copper on my lip.

It runs down toward the hollow of my cheek

before I even feel the first red slip.

I grab a napkin from the deli stand,

a thin and scratchy square of paper ply.

I press it hard against my face and hand,

and wait for the red fountain to run dry.

People turn their carts and look away,

while I stand bleeding in the light of day.