“Excuse me sir,” I say to the hand,
“That is not yours.”
I am always polite, always
Placid, tepid—lukewarm like bathwater.
A well-mannered sheep, kept safe.
The hand does not withdraw.
Demyelination
On the Nights I Rot
Sometimes I think my body is rotting inside out. It starts in the brain. On the bad nights I think of Ginsberg and his poem. I want to know what happens after I rot because I’m already rotting. I imagine pressing my finger into the seam in my chest and prying the chunks of skin and rib apart to reveal gaping, rotting guts.