The Third Day

The corner of the counter didn't move,

and neither did I. A blunt collision

while I was reaching for a clean glass.

Now, seventy-two hours later, the body

is finally telling the story in full.

It’s a deep, nautical blue in the center,

the color of a lake that doesn't have a bottom.

But around the edges, the bloom is turning—

a sickly, mustard-yellow ring creeping out

like a stain on a rented mattress.

I poke it while I brush my teeth,

a dull, satisfying throb that proves

I’m still here, still processing the impact.

It’s an ugly kind of healing, this slow

drift of pigments through the skin,

waiting for the yellow to swallow the blue.