My chapped lip is split
and cotton balls are pressed against my gums,
stained red from
blood, and gelatin
sent in a box from East Liverpool, Ohio
with a message reading,
“Get better, bud.”
I’m lying on my couch, high as hell from oxycodone,
and my brain is performing the butterfly stroke
up and down the Blackstone river.
Laying there, I think thoughts
of men who pick poppies from fields
that are crushed and synthesized
into the capsule inside my stomach
and I think of the men in the Vatican
who drink more wine than they should,
and how I shouldn’t drink any.
I think of things missing.
My first pair of glasses.
My cat, Cali.
The antibiotic I’m supposed to take,
that will release tiny little poisons
to kill the germs
living inside of my mouth.
And I’m kind of happy about that
Because those germs seem to be
A part of me
And I don’t think I could
Part with them.