After two months of your sickness we got used to feeling
stuck. Insuranceless and miminum wage’d,
you tell me the doctor at the free clinic refused to look
at your throat. His lungs are garbage,
she told the nurse, assuming you only understood
Spanish. Outside, the world burns
apocalypse. Deportations and decapitations.
Our bodies, two commas locked
into slumber. Outside, the sound of police sirens gash
the night like swollen banshees.
Miami is killing us. I cry for the border. For its sweet.
Your voice husks the thick of this city, answers:
Tiny cysts pock the red of your tonsils,
white. The doctor theorizes it’s caused by the black
mold beneath our walls, fuzzy tumors
soughing our inevitable poison. And what can we do?
What can we really do?
Besides walk past the stench of human feces,
and piles of ass wipes our landlord gutted
from a clogged pipe, left outside to rot-
stench, to teach his tenants a lesson
on property. By now we’ve become unfazed
by horror. To the lingering feeling of inferiority
poor people learn to hold like lead
in their pockets. Like pebbles
in a stream who learn to carry the water’s weight.
When you tell me you coughed blood, my body
deflates. And I am gone. Your voice, a distant moon
echo, calls for me to home. I breathe like fish
out of water. Sistole paralysis. Convinced I will die,
again. And you, the broken
angel that will carry my carcass to the point
where the river splits into two
about the author