blurs iridescent after meds— the sun’s dry-light sleeking drab. The pain-body sings musty as a moth-wing-tongue, calls you into the room with coffee and
Mama takes a breath for the doctor’s stethoscope pressing against her chest, a cold kiss moonshot point blank range. “Gentle now,” the doctor urges
Pray make me as commanding—in a yolk-gold gown cinched at the waist, turbaned hat, cigar mouthed like Che Guevara. Ochún, Santera de Los Rios—