Pond

On my way to the clinic
sunlight kills me softly
like the popular song,
its tongue warm to my skin,

No one is more out of touch
than the sanctioned shaman
with the stethoscope.
Touch isn’t his aim.
My presence reflects
his prescription pad’s
white space

*

Bloodwork like water
reflects, my lies to myself
taking health for granted
for decades. Flow through
my ribcage finds my eyes.
I remember the garden, circle
of concrete that holds decades-old
water. I hear the rain, frogs.
Staring at lab results
I pry the scab in my toe.
It blooms a red lotus.
The tear lengthens.
I used to pull my foot up,
meet it halfway to smell
the wound’s caramel
but my spine now says no.
The mirror and me
we reflect like kidneys