Holly Burnside
Blood Cabinet
I am my own pharmacist, my own diagnostic machine,
my own faith healer, shaman, bonesetter, cardiac surgeon,
crowding my cabinet with generic labels riding under witchcraft serums
formulated to glaze the body smooth again, to cripple
every lingering ache and tingle, pink liquids and white tablets
with warnings not to exceed the recommended dosage,
admonishments to consult my physician if symptoms persist
for more than seven days. But who trusts snake oil salesmen
but snakes? Better to knit my own tomorrow from guesswork
and green licorice shots that let me sleep even when breathing
is a luxury I can’t afford. They used to treat the hacking cough
with heroin, then handed our broken lover-boys some kind of methadone
screw-job and I was left with nothing but the memory of admiring
the way two East Broadway bodies curve into one,
nothing but a self-prescribed taste for Michelob
and marijuana and a few weak prayers at Mount Carmel
sanctuary. How much solace can anyone take from
mixing ibuprofen with a bloody kiss from a plaster
Christ? I should probably put down the Marlboros and
pick up another box of nicotine gum, but then how would
I die with a scrap of style? They make portable oxygen
tanks now anyway, and I’ve been assured that they can
deliver my testing supplies right to my door, no cost for
shipping. I promise if I ever notice a swelling of the mouth
and tongue, I’ll contact my doctor immediately. I’ve made
my covenant with 35, though I do wonder how the advertisers
know not only my age but my weight. I still have enough
struggle left for a crucifixion, provided I’m allowed a topical
numbing ointment. Is it appropriate to wonder how many
parasites the son of god suffered when he died?
I’ll shoot down the plague with multi-vitamin popguns,
blunt Monday’s stress curve with round chalky wafers
and their calcium bonus, I’ll lay down for awhile, take it easy,
see if it clears up on its own, and if not I’ll revisit whiskey
and see how it plays with nose drops and Vapo-rub.
Bio
Holly Burnside is a native of Toledo, Ohio, where she lives and writes. Her work has appeared most recently in Tipton Poetry Journal, La Fovea and Stirring. Holly teaches college composition and works as a writing tutor. She is also co-editor of Glass: A Journal Of Poetry.