My internet has been spotty the last few days, so I haven't been able to include a link and picture smoothly for the headlines, but today's poem is based on a story I read about a veteran who needed a doctor's appointment, was desperate for care, added to a "secret" waiting list, and died during this wait time.
The thorny ribs of Adam
Where was the face in the glass?
Before that's all you'd ask
Before you were led down the road
with the thorns in your throat,
the thorny ribs of Adam's fruit
demised and infused with dirt.
You ate the worm right off her lip and then struggled to swallow it down, wiggling, and thrashing,
until finally it succumbed
to the thorny ribs of her.