Together Forever in the Patient Room
If rats could speak to my heart
and walls could talk
an army of queen would flood
the areal sacs scratching at the scabbard
of my placenta infused skin
They chatter we are intrinsically linked
together, destined to shimmy up scaffoldings
and winding path where the fruits of our
labor fall from skeletal branches, and
the other half kicks up a windstorm
first seen by necromancers.
Psychic sorcerers pray tell what
you hear of the imploding bomb inside
the plane where ice drops in plastic
cups and two faces next to me, ask
“Where are you going?
Where are you headed?”
For a woman, I tell them.
When we depart Chicago O’ Hare,
they wish me good luck and fare well
as the whiskers on their faces squiggle
like a road map and mountains uncheck
my luggage bags for six month of purgatory.
She stands there, a snowcapped peak, white
as the whitest room of a mental asylum
walls on the all sides, and down the corridor
hallways of love, I hear the cards of fate
revolve in distress, wheels on gurney
spinning and squeaking luck of the draw
as we meet at the end and serum
injected in my vein bloom with
white roses in July heat.