I can smell the medicine— brown as decaying roots
Twisting their heads for a thirst, I am fever dry;
Skin gray on a white body, creeping like a nun, bruised
In a water-sump basement, fish puddle in a glass.
I have married a cupboard of remedies,
Sipping cure-alls from bottles, poultice in an armpit,
Bowels unfamiliar, wallowed down a drain.
I can smell death— salt weed on a black wall
Peeling off like stench injuring a life;
My skin is an onion, unraveling flesh prickling a gauze.
Each movement is a red fist bleeding me;
Down here, bugs save me for a mouth,
Gnaw me to a white bone. I am in a damned condition,
Shriveling into a prayer, into a crock of dust.
I am shallow breathing, coffined in a lung. White walls
Now; angels carrying paper bags with my remains.
Empty, I echo to a memory; I exhale it like a scent.
The stain of it, dirty as a fever; my soul steps from it,
Like old ailments from an agony. Death has no mercy
For anyone. He lures like a blind man.
I wheeze at the gate from a run, slumped into holiness.
Copyright © 09/22/18 lance sheridan®