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March of Folly

July 24, 2012

Mother has a fever.

Beaded sweat over the ocean

laps warmly her forehead.

There are lesions across her midriff.

Her skin is choked slick with oil

as leukocytes sleep in the heat.

The red blood cells hoard the oxygen.

A boil on her far side has broken open

and the pus runs over pores like ice trays

that never freeze but only drown.

All around her in the air is malice!

cries Cassandra in vain.

The doctors have other patients

and certainty is running out of patience

and certainly she is running out of time.

The thermometer feels a fire in its belly

roiling and boiling and red and screaming

that all will be left is dirt.

Mother turns over and we edge away

looking out the window at the trees.


From → Poetry

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