Saturday, October 30, 2010

Patria Mellita

Every burning mountain of his face
crowned with white pus, the corners of his mouth
scaled and cracking, the sores
as red as swollen strawberries;
his cup of tea will tremble on his lap
as he pours the sugar in, not from a spoon,
oh no, not from a sugar bowl,
but from the five pound bag: until
an inch of sugar mud lies on the teacup bottom
and the liquid squirms in its shifting depths.
You can't help but wonder what adjustments
are made in the great confinement of his gut:
what racing messengers of insulin collide,
fall sprawling, at the liver's gates;
how sweetly of honey must his urine smell,
how bees must cluster on his toilet's lips.

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