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A Wicked Red
A poem
The rainwater has turned heavy,
and a glowering green
gathering of pixels
glistens as it glides above
the burning, soon cavernous rooftops.
People gather in crowds,
confused, mouths agape
and capturing cancers, multiplying
mutations, signing the contracts
for their silences and deaths.
Keep it quiet,
silent bodies in rows within
lead-lined concrete coffins.
When the letter arrives,
long-awaited, ripped open, the
envelope attacked and torn, it
only tells you that
money is better off as expenses
(one hair salon visit, three five star meals,
a new car and concert tickets)
than as life-saving surgery,
face turned a clinical white
hands trembling as the future
becomes clear.
We have become an ouroboros.
I grit my teeth — while they last -
while my body rots into slowly separating…
