There is a drawer below the bathroom
sink and to the right, reserved for expired
medications, and ones that never worked in
the first
place. On the noisebox someone is administering
hope, squeezing it from a tube and smearing
it over a spreading rash that
is erupting in hypodermic
chants. In the drawer there are
tubes and little
orange containers that rattle when the
drawer is
slammed. Promises do not rattle
if kept. The convenience
store sells rattles and diapers, ointments and
supplements, condiments to compliment
your sustenance, and when the
clerk compliments your goggles, you
comment on her confidence and feel
so full
of sunlight that you buy two
bags of gummy candies for
the man outside. This is a remedy
for neither of you, just what the doctor, unable to
ascribe your swollen eyes to
influences in or outside, would not
prescribe. The boxes arrive, and the bills, and
together they form a castle with
countless rooms, and a bathroom with a drawer
beneath the sink that
rattles before
you even
open it.
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