My chapped lip is split 

and cotton balls are pressed against my gums,

stained red from

blood, and gelatin

sent in a box from East Liverpool, Ohio

with a message reading,

“Get better, bud.”

I’m lying on my couch, high as hell from oxycodone,

and my brain is performing the butterfly stroke

up and down the Blackstone river.

Laying there, I think thoughts

of men who pick poppies from fields

that are crushed and synthesized

into the capsule inside my stomach

and I think of the men in the Vatican

who drink more wine than they should,

and how I shouldn’t drink any.

I think of things missing.

My first pair of glasses.

My cat, Cali.

The antibiotic I’m supposed to take,

that will release tiny little poisons

to kill the germs

living inside of my mouth.

And I’m kind of happy about that

Because those germs seem to be

A part of me

And I don’t think I could

Part with them.