"Boiling" by Teal Pratt

I burned my hand cooking. Red rushed through newly tender skin.

Spilt spaghetti dinner down the sink. Our food we couldn't afford to waste: wasted.

I envisioned her stagnant at the table, laughing insultingly – a taunter.

Yet you raised from the table, rested your work awaited within midnight time,

and in place hasted to me, parsing the pink spots on my palm.

You brought my hand to heal under lukewarm water.

You also studied scars from now distant distances and times,

when the wound was infected in a worthless effort. One of the nights

she sat stagnant at the table, laughing insultingly – a bother.

You asked if I was alright, how badly it burned, not about our dinner.

 You told me cold burns hurt worse, they fester.

You caressed my healing hand under the lukewarm water.

She wouldn't have even thought to get up.

She would've this, she would've that,

she would've sat stagnant at the table, laughing insultingly — a watcher.

Thoughts spiraled down the drain, dissipating now. You sat me down with you to

let me rest, with a kind concerned kiss on my forehead.

You then pursed your pretty lips on my neutral knuckles,

lukewarm from when you lightly held my hand under the water.