Health Care

I am nearly crushed
by
the unyielding weight
of a human skeleton.

The due North
of a boney thought. The tricks
our bodies pull
like cruel magicians.

I am afraid of my own
blood. Afraid
of the tunnel
of sleep. That strange
medicine.

My skeleton is costume
I’m almost
not crazy now.
Like a car on its final ride.

Some things never occur
to an old dirt road.
Sometimes you mean
the other ocean.

What I meant was
I’ve been found
and forgiven.
That flowers were enough.
That I can be cruel
even in dreams.

There is no more medicine.
Luckily, there is no more
illness.
There is a body
like a white branch.

Veins are other stories
—your veins
watercolor. Your veins
unfurled and tempting
in the pastoral light
of a warm kitchen.

My body
is
an autobiography of dust.
You can hear the wind
whistle through it.

You may find it’s territory
familiar. The charred walls
of a fireplace.
the still drop
of blood on a pine branch.

Don’t assume
the dust will dissipate.
Don’t assume you bleed
to remember.

Vincent James Perrone is a writer and musician from Detroit. He is the author of Starving Romanic (11:11 Press, 2018) and occasionally writes funny/sad things on twitter @spookyghostclub.