Plumbing

I was only trying to stop the slow drip

where the pipe meets the wall in a rusted embrace.

The wrench slipped its teeth and bit my knuckle,

a quick, hot sting that opened the skin.

I watched the red bead and then bloom,

a bright, floral mistake against the white sink.

It smells like a handful of old copper pennies,

the same iron scent of my mother’s tired kitchen.

It swirls down the drain with the grey, soapy water,

a thin ribbon of history I can't scrub out.

I have her narrow wrists and this thinning salt,

and the same stubborn leak in the back of the house.