A ROGUE CURE

n sunny afternoons, I

Ogo out to the street to eat tar. It reminds me of black licorice, and maybe it is a medicine for an ill I intuit but cannot articulate.

I pull foul, gooey berries, sun-softened and caustic scented, from mended cracks in the street. My mind—still, silent, and numb—watches my attentive teeth bite and scrape tar from my fingers; watches the black, bitter gobs slide down my throat like pills from some netherworld.

Whether remedy or poison, my intestines are furious. They want the tar out. A pain in my gut turns into a voice like creaking branches that chants—

* breathe green air in liquid light * follow wind to its source * undress * swim in a swamp * crawl inside of an alligator * hatch out of its egg * fly away, a crane * with your beak, write a message * in mud * watch it crack in the sun * and become dust * fly backwards until you are * human again * plant hollyhocks, black and white * on graves of the forgotten * pretend you remember them * weep until the flowers bloom * let them teach the tar * how to turn into clouds * that rise to your eyes * condense like rain * and fall * iridescent pearls onto petals * the colors of milk and of night *

When the viscera song ceases, the atmosphere is viridescent, and the sun’s light descends in slow swirling flows like warm honey. ●