shrapnel floating in tar:

your voice reciting the truths

that came back positive.

cough medicine for hoarse throats:

my pharmaceutical tongue,

sugarcoating the lenient lies

we’d always take under our wings,

like strays.


Our promised land, the cure

was right here all along,

in this mountain-top laboratory,

with its white coats

and dispassionate diagnoses.

you were never quite as medical

never quite as mystical,

sleek and subduing,

and I was never quite as white

and unabated.


We’ve built our home,

a sanatorium,

in the emptied skull,

of the seventh head

of the Himalayas,

and it’s turning our hearts

to surgeons

operating on themselves,


with no gloves on

and no anesthetic




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