Читать книгу The Folded Heart - Michael Collier - Страница 13

Iodine

The cure-all bottle fits the palm

of his hand, and the rubber nipple

of the squeeze top rises like a black

thumb in the shadow of his thumb.

Skull and crossbones on the label,

and the wide morgue of the medicine

cabinet open. The order of gauze,

tape and cotton on the glass shelves.

The flesh-colored bandage held

in a tight roll by its butterfly clasp.

Dusting of talc. Flocking of toothpaste.

The white soft ridges of soap in the empty

dish. And his other hand under the rush of cold

water. The sink filling with rosy, thinned

blood. The blue razor blade he was trying

to fit into the cabinet’s disposal slot

lies like a fish fin on the pink ceramic counter.

Then resting the cut hand on the rim of the sink,

fingers held up to slow the flow of blood,

my uncle fits the bottle in his mouth.

The exaggerated squint of one eye

as his teeth tighten on the plastic cap

and his good hand strains, like a wrench,

until the seal on the vial breaks. Then his tongue,

ferrous with the leakage, sputters and spits,

his lips wiping the bitterness on his shoulder,

the back of his wrist. His head crazy

with the mistake. And the water he cups

in his hands, brackish with blood and iodine,

is the color of the veil that shrouds

his life and its absurd diminishment

there in the bathroom of his sister’s house.