I go for the cure

gasping, I tell White Coat there is something 

tough-red stuck in the base of my spine 

 

and he pities me—“it will scar whether you run

(out of air) or swallow the bullet” but

 

I just want to kiss a daughter goodbye

it was in my dream last night

 

her fledgling body with its

own ribs. when I left—

 

I was born

 

—

 

on Halloween, in the suburbs. eighteen years 

later, a woman on the subway is set 

 

on fire and the ash was somehow beneath 

the womb-nubs of my fingernails:

 

the doctor who delivered me couldn’t 

seem to explain the stains, once

 

I learned to speak I said the smoke 

was hiding in my lungs

 

for a long time, 

 

—

 

it sat in wait, in neat dime-wide roller curls

like the ones that once billowed

 

from stakes, hardening 

under the heels of 

 

lean chicken thrown to the dogs, of 

sloppy-mouthed kisses

 

the knowledge of what’s at stake

waiting 

 

for a long time, 

 

—

 

like most of them do, 

for the look away

 

and when the spine didn’t bow

the smoke traveled there, made it so

 

hot.

hot and tough-red, barely bleeding

 

and I thought maybe it was the envy of

Past Self, 

 

but in my dream,  

 

—

 

a girl brushes her warm lips

close to my forehead

 

my spine—

 

i am naked and pale, and there is lead in my stomach.

“it will scar,” White Coat frowns, 

 

his hand on our shoulders,

“and I cannot smooth it.” 

 

I just want— 

 

then the girl is burning, a lovely

small thing like a memory

 

—

and there is something