Temperature

I’m sitting on the edge of the tub now

with my hand in a bowl of water.

The tip of my thumb is split open,

a clean red line from the chrome.

I shouldn't have walked over there.

I just wanted to know if the engine was ticking,

if the heat was still rising off the metal.

But the emblem was jagged, a broken tooth,

and it caught me before I could pull back.

I can still smell it on my sleeve—

the transmission fluid, sharp and heavy,

like burnt sugar and old copper,

staining the cuff of a shirt I actually liked.