as real as a grocery cart

in the kingdom
of sickness, as the store

I belong to, as the lonely

wheelchair
enthusiast, as the candle

lit
that becomes
the idiot’s
flower, as god, as real

as the owls
of those who’ve groomed
their spineless
sons

to wash
the hair
of the one
still
giving birth

on a rooftop, books

by the baby
nickname