by Marcia Griswold

My blood
in a tube
in a room
far away from here
from me.

Prophylactic hands
amputated from sense
to me
decide the recipe
of my future.

Or not.

And the rest of me
far away from there
this film a worthless balm on my brain
and my ass two cactus in this seat
the rat on his wheel
in my chest

I shrivel

from the others
a stowaway among them


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