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Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
3AM, one night of May 25
Run out of fuel to move around
“Imbalance, impatient”, was I.
Called a Dr, to get some help
Wondered, “what is your problem?”
Umm, “I never know what peace is.”
Fatigue, swelling, loss of memory
Feeling low and much more, all I get.

Achievement of life
Umm, gaining 3 pounds of weight every month
Blood work was out of range,
Homeostasis was not on my side
Felt of lost in transition,
Between Heaven and Hell.

“Dr., am I going to die?”
Tempting to release the constant fear
Stupid arguments that haunt every time.

“Calm down, it’s not too late”,
“Don’t escape from the realms of reality”,
“Let the awareness spread”,
“Fight, support and advocate”,
“Seek a path of peaceful harmony”,
“Let’s make 25th May, bigger”,
He said.
Genre: Clinical
Theme: On 25th May, it's World Thyroid Day
Elizabeth Dec 2015
When my ear first orbited your throat
to listen for a roaming balloon of nestled flesh
I heard trailer home hollowness
in copper vein pipes.
You draped a scarf over your superglued
neck, telling me it was normal to fistfight
death at 35.
On Dad’s desk, your weight breathed feebly
inside a sandwich bag. At night
its nuclear green cast Orions across our ceiling.
I never knew what real stars looked like,
while you had completely forgotten.

Years later,
in the dark of our 17-acre home,
you handed me your thyroid in its bag
swimming in opalescent fluid
and you looked at Polaris for the first time,
as that same glow painted the Big Dipper
on neighboring snowbanks.
I dropped the bag on the dry rot porch.
We heard your cancer flatten to a deflated bicycle tire,
sweating from death,
watched through squinted eyes as its glow turned
from hazardous neon to cinder.
It dried in the moonlight,
a forgotten, frostbitten raisin,
and our eyes readjusted to the perpetuating darkness.

I saw it then like a long constellation
line connecting star to forehead.
It had been a lie before,
but the North Star is truly the brightest
in the sky. We looked through its surface
underneath the star’s skin to its heart space,
and we realized that Polaris can only be seen
when thin plastic holds inside
damaged shadows of family
dinners bathed in deionized salt,
where I ponderously stared at the ****
in your esophagus, drawn with knife
like ruby crayon into office paper.
Published in the Spring edition of the Temenos literary journal, 2016.

— The End —