My physiotherapist is spending
time with COVID. His replacement tries, but fails and fails to make sense of the
injury and time) carves in my flesh and
My jaw is howling. The throb turns
thought to storm, leaves me stumbling for rhyme or reason or relief in a winter
forest that knows no respite or spring or poetry.
My chronic illness monster’s demanding
my new OCD
has superpowers: she knows how to cackle, understands why the sight
leaves my body
and mind quaking but
playing with dirt soothes
My Piano Man says he has 13, 31,
or 39 kisses for me.
And I cackle.
when the world is
I taste full moon memories—
lived ink on my tongue