Who isn’t sick
of being Sisyphus, pushing the rock
of your body daily, up from the bed?
When someone says hypochondriac
all I can think is, give me a shot
of adrenaline irradiate this burden
no pain, no need to gain.
So many tried
and failed treatments I say
give it a name
call it, a filament
spun into tourniquet
anomaly twisted to penalty, an infestation
scaling my nerves.
✷
What about heartache? multiple strains
of arthritis, hers, her child’s,
the husband leaves
she’s a power outage
a walking specter in bruised daylight
what bandage or antiseptic for her plight?
was there an expiration date
for rupture?
pathologic or melancholic,
her grieving—
a trail of gauze.
✷
A man says, “it’s transient”—
he’s seeking
ground—a rock
the war
still resides inside, amps up
his sugared house
bloody lows and highs, twitchy
brood of his eyes
a bilious babble, warbles
like a bird of necrosis
winged psychosis
his fractured peace
begs for measure.