Antiseptic

The oven rack bit me

while I was reaching for the roast.

A clean, sharp snap of heat

and a red line across the knuckle.

I found the bottle behind the Tylenol,

the cap fused on with orange rust.

I had to use a towel to torque it

until the plastic gave a dry, salt crack.

The liquid is thick and smells of the harbor.

I tilt my hand and let it fill

the valleys of my palm,

staining the skin the color of an old penny.

It stings with a beautiful, cold logic.

Better than the fake smiles at the office

or the way the boss says "we"

when he means "you."