A Barrier of Petroleum

Three in the morning is too late for a cure.

I opened the cabinet to find the blue jar

behind the aspirin and the rubbing alcohol.

My skin has been catching on the percale,

a dry, sandpaper sound that kept me awake.

I dipped two fingers into the jelly,

that thick, clear silence that smells of nothing.

I rubbed it into my knuckles and palms

until I looked like I was made of wet stone.

Then I reached for the light and left

a greasy thumbprint on the mirror

that I know I won’t bother to clean tomorrow.