blotch
As I have told everyone who will listen it is midterm-time and I have spending far too much time attempting to memorize bizarre medical terms (and 90% of them are diseases and terrible things that can go wrong with the human body) under the guise that occupational therapists do nothing more than dealing with these sorts of things on a daily basis. I have been up since 3:30 this morning trying to memorize chapter 11, the digestive system. We are required to know terms like, "esophagogastroduodenoscopy," which is a, "visual examination of the esophagus, stomach and duodenum." Great. And now it is 9 a.m. and I must go shave and shower and get ready for my other test, anatomy, which will all be about the lymph system. I use to really enjoy the human body at one time. *sigh*
The downside of spending your time reading nothing but odd and painful sounding ways the body can give out on you is that I have been thinking of nothing else all weekend. This poem is not, I assure you, autobiographical. But for anyone reads it I just wanted you to know where the source material came from. Enjoy.
With nail and foot. With wrist and vein. With knife.
With a knife. Tonguing strife. With aplomb watch
me blow. As in shots. As in out. Blood-life
clots. As in the stain on my name. The blotch
growing behind my skin. Blotch. Take my nail.
Take my foot. I don't need them now. Take my
veins. They are all I have to give. Exhale
my tongue. Spit out my knife. What does the sky
need to know? I have odd secrets but none
that please me. What a drag; the sky is not
my friend this morning. What a drag. Urine
in my blood. Tissue tearing. One more clot
at the heart of the matter. And this brain
shudders again and again and again.