Out of the Bottle

I was looking for a double-A

in the dark of a drawer gone wild,

when I found the glass and the heavy clay

of a color I haven't seen since a child.

The cap was stuck with a crust of salt,

and when it gave, it gave too fast.

A single drop—not a major fault—

but a deep, dark blue that’s built to last.

It stained my knuckle, a sharp, cold sting,

the shade of a bruise on a mother's wrist.

It’s a thick and heavy and permanent thing,

a piece of the dark that refused to be missed.