Open wide for me, statistic. Say

forty-three percent. Say seventy.

Deep breath now. Act static

when every dawn a Band-Aid rip

raw. Your animal

heart tipped epidemic

 

to havenothavenothavenot.

 

I can tell you’ve been practicing

your tiny death. Don’t panic, defib-

rillate. Tell me

when it hurts then swallow. Again

pretty face, articulate.

Tongue depressor, measure

 

of tick under ribs. Of mine

and hours. Count the fears

showing symptom no answer

as you summer sunset

down and out of the mouth.