Second Degree

The water hits my back and starts to scream,

a thousand needles in the bathroom tile.

I watch the rising of the soapy steam

and try to hold my breath a little while.

My shoulder in the mirror is a map,

a lobster-red and angry piece of skin.

I fell into the afternoon's bright trap

and let the solar violence settle in.

A white handprint is burned across the blade,

the ghost of where I tried to shield the heat.

I hear the sound the plastic furniture made

when I stood up and left the garden seat.