Hot Oil

a poem

the oil leapt from the pan
splashing my wrist
and with a hiss it landed
and i sucked air through my teeth
used colorful speech 
i was cooking vegan hotdogs
hastily
lunch was late 
and the baby is crying
and now my wrist is burning
and it’s covering
that tattoo
the only one i regret
and i imagined
it searing the ink right off my skin
take back what was given
and as the flesh grew pink 
hot to the touch 
i knew 
new skin
would surface soon
and i let myself
for a moment
believe that some things 
can be burned away

‘Still Life with Cooking Utensils’ by Jean-Baptiste Siméon Chardin, c. 1728-30

bonus material/proof:

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