You were taught to grind herbs in a mortar,
steep comfrey for tea, divine the clouds
that form at the bottom of a cup. What
ailed you was not always from virus or
contagion, but could be a message
from the beyond, or demons, or ghosts.
Death can mark every door with soot
from a torch, let loose a plague of insects
from the sky. No coin can appease it,
but perhaps an amulet pinned to your
undershirt creates some kind of force
field. Still, the body is a hard book to read,
immersive text swirling with dull humors.
Bile, thickened blood, choleric swarm
loosed in the bladder. On a good day,
its scars quiet, the skin not bluing. Bones
clothed in ripples, not drenched in hurt.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
