Gushing into this pattern. My body is on fire.
I meld into every possible state of desiccation.

I shiver hot.

The lungs broil so I stop eating. Become less.
Every scent siphons through the filter of flow.
The body is a river upheaving itself, pulling
from its long-known bed and twisting into an
unknown course, with new lines and cracks
and valleys to learn.

The throat is a road through a redwood. Sound
drains first from my lips then from my ears.
Everyone drives through. They stop and take
photographs. They watch the melt surge.

The tongue becomes a strange color. I hold
it before the flowers on the sofa. Imagine
the two stitched into one. The grey stale air
f the enclosed room turns flesh into shadow.

I bust the hole I’ve torn at the back of my throat.

Everything swells. Legs and ankles expand in
the summer of my body. The hack intermittent.

Deprivation is a wonder. I want to take every
dress from my closet, the off-brand satins and
velvets, toss them into the hallway for the
neighbor’s dog to chew. I pull the flower pots
and empty them into the garden outside. I rip
the pages from each book. I barely move
my fingers. I watch my mind play these scenarios.
I want to pray in deep water and touch a glacier
before it casts itself into our shared abyss.

I’ve gone half-numb. Silenced by the shell.
A whistling hole echoes from behind the teeth.
A shooting pang against the temple.
A big vague cloud has set itself inside
the thick fog of the right inner ear.

At night, I wear one ear plug and stare at the
ceiling. If I tip forward, the dry hacking thing
emerges. Gristling tyrant of the body. It echoes
through the walls. Volumetric reason, I burst.

It grows bigger. Perfunctory snaps into space.
Stolid air. My house smells of viscosity. Every
part of my body expands with water retention
while I deny chewable foods. My stomach
bubbles and screams. This practice in less.
This lesson in practicing death. This death
is practicing a lesson upon me.