MISSION 376: PATIENT X

There’s dirt in his mouth now

                                                                                    you know that for sure.

There’s Earth inside his bloated belly

                                                                                    you know that for sure.

The worms might have eaten away his ragged skin by now

but the metal is still there.

Splayed on the satin or cotton lining

like sad coins of a wishing well.

His casket might be oak, or cherry wood

                                                                                you hope it was something sleek

and aesthetically pleasing

                                                                             you hope the flag was soft enough

for hands and cheeks that needed touching.

PROLONGED EXPOSURE THERAPY

Ten minutes staring at
a fountain pen stabbing,
scribbling paper.

A rocket hit a concrete wall
I told her.

Water spots on bifocal glasses
blurring iris’s, flickering like
burnt out pixels on a screen.

A desk placard bolded
with professional credentials
hooraying the study of mental illness.

A rocket hit a concrete wall and

Tic-tacs shaking in my red purse
snapping the container at its neck
revealing the candied-mint nonsense
delaying my esophagus to stretch
in the direction of answer.

A rocket hit a C-130 fuel tank spraying shrapnel

Her voice dives
down into the depths
of her vocal cords
pulling out
forced tonal sympathy
an octave of care.

If you’d like, I can prescribe you Zoloft today.

The rocket hit a concrete wall
the metal
a rocket
hit
the fuel tank
a concrete
w
a
l
l

DOXIES AND RUM

My Dachshund

                   watches me pour

                                                my third

                                      rum and Coke.

                                                          His bowed legs sit

                                      firmly under

                                                                   his robust

                             chocolate colored chest.

                                                          Eyes beaming

                                                                             not in judgment

                   but acceptance.

                                                Captain Morgan’s

                                                                   leg swung firmly

                                      resting on a barrel

                                                                    he winks, opens his mouth

                                                and howls a whistling screech

a rocket’s screech.

A hand over his mouth

                                      I quiet him.

Pouring the rest in the empty glass

                                                                             the ice breaks up

                                                                                      dissolving into

 themselves.

                                      Spice, sugar, caramel,

                             washes away the dryness in my throat

and salt from the sinuses stuck there.

                   Salt that I refuse

                                      to expel

any natural way.

                             My Doxie jumps on my lap

                                                                   smelling distinctly of corn chips

for no reason at all.

                             He rests his head in the crevice

          of my arm

                             sighing deeper

                                                than I thought he could.