You winter on the Islets of
Langerhans. You have to go
through the Carpal Tunnel
to get to the Grand Mal beach.
We're born with a condition
without any name and
no known cure, which is chronic,
prolonged and ultimately fatal.
You monitor headaches every morning,
the whump of tiredness every evening,
the tingling numbness in the fingers
that creeps up the hands and arms
at night, the sore throats, swollen glands,
rashless itches and all the bone-clicks,
cracks and marionette clacks.
You type late into the evening
in the collective unconscious,
one part cesspool, one part Borges'
infinite library, convinced your symptoms
add up to something sinister.
There's nothing conclusive
but tell that to the tumour,
your brain. Nothing's wrong
but it could be. There are
illnesses as yet unidentified
with no code and no known cure.
Brewing there at the back of the throat
could be the next pandemic
with your name on it.
