Every illness turns to a poem
Sometimes a slow explosion in my jaw,
axe blade against my face to carve and shear,
sometimes an ache of fire from tooth to ear.
It peaks then I can't feel it any more.
A swollen tongue, a sudden taste of pus,
nodes in my neck that grow and then go slack.
Those went in time. I feared their coming back
but pills disposed of them without much fuss.
What I have now is memory of pain
that trained my neck to hurt, my teeth to grind.
Love goes, but leaves these patterns in my mind
to char and wrench and tear my flesh again.
These are the only remedies I know.
Sleep dream sit still and wait for it to go.