strep throat blues

we lie beneath a streptoccocus moon where i envisioned
your surgeon’s knife ready to make the incision, ready
to scour my insides with sandpaper where dwells all
the infection of the ages: the jealousy and the anger
and the spite–it winds through my organs like an asp
and even my heart is bitten. where did i come from:
the earth spit me up like sour formula and the water
delivered me from its waves onto the shore to say it
was done with me. we lie beneath a bloodred moon and
you are the one who gets to decide if we are reclining
with ease or begetting falsehood. when i lie, i lie by
myself. so get off this rock and leave me alone.


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