Visiting My Apothecary
surely my suffering isn’t imaginary . . .
Lately, my bones are leaking marrow
long gone ovaries peep like sparrows
intestines mostly choked and narrow
to tote my gut, I need a wheelbarrow.
Imad bade me locate an apothecary
with madness like mine, do not tarry
guessing at a lack of wild whoreberry
prompting inflammation like hari-kari.
Defiant Joy prescribes Marvin Gaye
for sexual healing in shades of gray
if I can’t stop thrashing my clit away
she’ll gift me an intervention getaway.
Lately young Gustave yanks my chain
and despite his schedule being a drain
promises a hot chop of his chow mein
pity fuck for me, he unabashedly explains.
I love Gus, a funny bloviating literary
spinning magic across his scientific prairie
whenever the crazies infest and miscarry
his coping mechanism is to be wicked merry.
