From the Fishouse

At four, shivering
with fever, I bit through
the thermometer
slipped under my tongue.
Mercury!

My mother’s anguish
washed over me
as I was rolled
onto my side, a wet
cloth around her finger,
she dug frantically
through my mouth.

First memory of taste:
not the milky nipple, not
the spoonful of fruit,
but the icicle cool
of splintered glass
and the poison capillary
that runs through
every act of care.