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Ray Succre
Appending Fay
Afternoon Fay, from her bedroom ripe, streaked in her pneumonia*1, stands near a sink and severs her pills width, takes by water*2 as spring onion steams from the kitchen pot*3, and the catcalling young men on television wave*4. “Geronimo.” she says, approaching the pot, then “Geriatric. Jerry-rigged. Geranium*5.” which leads her mind at last to coughing out: “I have gerontoxicosis.”*6
Her lungs ache, thickly present in sense like dark bruises*7.
She bends the scallions back and nudges the stalks*8, woman under simmering water, inhaling slow, above.
* 1LeFavre, doctor stated so mild, his energy invisible*2From tap through charcoal, plastic, metal; filtered *3Passages clear from most agitation, onion is a sensual respiratory altercation *4They exist flatly to appease the notion one can see them *5Leap off or in; old; patched weakly; flower *6Angeltoxicosis has admitted its fault is found in calendars, turns *7Perches of caught later-night vomit have trickled into airways, infecting, sputtering while sleep is attempted *8Sailing into onion, tongue a rudder, anchor nasal high
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