Terminal

The stove clock is a cold blue ghost

in a room where the fridge stopped breathing.

I reached into the junk drawer,

feeling past the tangled rubber bands

and the plastic takeout menus

for the heavy weight of the flashlight.

The tail cap didn't want to turn.

When it finally gave, the spring was choked

with a crust of sea-foam green,

a bitter, chalky blooming of acid.

It’s on my fingers now,

staining the skin where I tried to scrape

the dead salt of a battery that went sour.