Poem: Diagnosis

 

Diagnosis

 

infested with warfare,

blood on your blue

and white.

 

we’re not sure

how to remove the bullets

sunk in your organs.

in effect, cysts.

 

you have canons for femurs.

sabers for ribs.

why did you embrace the Enola Gay

in the first place?

 

did you know

you’ve had radiation sickness

ever since?

 

we're putting you on a diet.

no more bingeing on prejudice.

this sclerosis of fear,

its paroxysms of hate--

they attack the heart.

 

and the gold that plates your veins,

quite the heaviness, you know.

it sucks up all the warmth.

we'll send a shovel, not a scalpel,

to extract the corpses.

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10/3/24  eds.