Illness Poems

Just before the final burning-out,
the Earth-lights flicker like a palpitating heart.
–
I implore you, my love, not to
disregard your dyspeptic reflex.
Those who spew bile are the blessed.
You refuse to digest or abide
the vile mess the healthy hesitate to spit out.
Expel the world’s acid.
Keep uncorroded
your pearl-lined insides.
–
“They found Stage Four Americanitis,
Neurasthenic Phthisis,
and it’s too late.”
–
The somnambulist knows:
not what she wants,
save to want;
not where to go,
lest she arrive;
not what her body could do,
but that others knew;
exhausted streets, empty hearts, double lives,
passing time.
–
Despite “Chronic Lyme Disease doesn’t exist,”
the sufferers still feel like shit.
And why not? They’re sick.