Desperate to be well
My guts were manufacturing
Barbed wire and I could feel
Every yank of the sibling strands
Grating of their braiding
Bite of each marital point
As the barbs were pinched
Onto the endless line.
Later, on a scale of one to ten,
I was asked to rate my pain
As the manufactory churned
And wondered, like trying to reach
A doorway by traveling half
The distance with each step,
If I ever got to ten
Then what would come after?
I was offered treatment first.
It’s the first shot I remember best –
I was warned of a pinch in my gut,
A flush In my neck, and like throwing
A switch the barbs fell away, silence
Coated my interior and all the clatter,
even the memory of it, died. I sighed
Having finally reached my destination.