The Color of Healing

I caught my shin on the dishwasher rack,

a stupid, jagged mistake in the dark.

I limped to the cabinet and reached way back

for the bottle that always leaves a mark.

The glass dropper pulls up a tea-colored rust,

a dark, heavy syrup that smells like the sea.

I press the cotton ball down because I must,

and wait for the sting to settle in me.

Now my thumb is stained a permanent gold,

that orange-brown shadow that won't wash away.

Some wounds are quick and some wounds are old,

but the medicine always finds a reason to stay.