Uncle Samuel was 41
when he amputated his tongue (say: BIID).
His heart now full of debris, rotten teeth,
fractured ankles and – from time to time –
he is resolute.
If I’m still awake at dawn
I see I do look like him;
same old citalopram’s a-dripping,
the newscast as a coercive ultimate anaesthetic.
"Let it happen", Sammie says,
"as long as we are still around."
The tanks ask their way to Lhasa or Gaza
for the usual reprisal;
and the papal ex-communication,
to let me know my clitoris is outlaw.
"Last night I saw inside my breast", Sam says.
"There was a big sore."
Pah! You saw your heart.
"No", he answers, "it was living."
2 days ago
Posts
3 comments:
...
I am trying to think of something else to say. But I can't.
me too.
no.
wait.
i will say,
where have you been all my life?
Where have I been? Uh. That's the kind of question I ask myself every morning...
(Thanks.)
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