When I speak of unreliability I speak into the green that flips open,
connecting vibrations from my box of lungs to receptacles of sympathy.
I speak of bile lullabies that stirred my sleep as beetle bugs gripped my joints,
a rude disservice snapping shades, why not another week, another twenty-four hours
when a plague could swarm, weighing me to the bed on my back, on my stomach side, body contorting, ‘unable to turn over or away from this.’
I speak of a coast-long list of amputations, inconvenient cycles, unwelcome third parties that I’d gladly welcome in lieu of loose three-legged stools or vile sulfur yellow acid, feverish in nature, ruthlessly plundering resources I have not to give, leaving 100.4 reasons to tug the covers, burning effete.
And I speak of lighting not one, but twenty-two candles in my memory, in my honor,
marking my origin, and one for good measure.
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