Illness again, advice from
friends and loved ones who live
in screens and dreams. Empty stomach is food
for thought is old news boiling
to a screeching terror, temporary like
children. Tattoos of the first and
last 140 characters of every major chapter, irreversible, ugly, stretching and deforming into blisters
that medication is supposed
to treat. How close doctors get, how
distant their greetings, bathed in hand
sanitizer and questions that are
not questions. Lie down, sit up, drink
cordial and soup, all vehicles for kindness, remedies
for good memories. Replace the clocks with
mirrors, true crime with fake thrillers, window
shades and cinnamon debts with painkillers
and fishnet silhouettes. These are the aspirations of
ancestors caught in primordial loops – penitent, shrewd,
forgiving and unforgiven. They knew the eternity
of disease, the gift of fever. But it is not the
bad thing, not according to
amateur chemistry. So continue the cotton candy,
reduce worries over low heat, cash in good karma so
diligently earned and carefully squirreled
away. Draw a picture, blindfolded, of everything
worthwhile. Help is on the way, making
every possible
stop, bearing saline and shovels. Consider
this a blip among an infinity of
blips, all equally drenched in scent-free
detergent, clamoring for the rinse and spin.
Gentleness is central to the cure, but also
how this all started.
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