i love you,
like dried blood cakes a nostril
anymore.
is there a law against that too?
for a sample of your minky skin,
armadas have gone aground
and trained assassins
have turned their daggers on themselves.
a chained dog,
wracked by impulses,
helplessly sensing
a focused approximation
of everything —
looking at your body,
forensic toxicologists
scratch their heads
and step outside
for a much-needed smoke.
the wise man
always keeps a jar of antiseptic
and cotton swabs
and forceps
and a good sharp blade.
his dental picks are clean
and new
his gloves are lightly powdered
his gauze is fresh
for the wise man never knows
when delicate surgery
will be required
a certain imbalance
to my smile
was the alert.
like I’d been punched in the lip —
stiffness, though, not pain.
the right side was tight
something was wrong
Bell’s Palsy:
paralysis of the facial motor nerve.
temporary, God willing,
but food for thought.
so where does the mind get off
trusting its functions
to nervous intermediaries
who,
grown fat in their own disaster,
undermine the whole show?