Flaked Fuselage


You suffered from psoriasis

And tried so many fruitless remedies

No dairy, no meat, no fish, lots of greens

My pantry was choc-a-bloc

With the remnants

Of one trial effort:

Accusing rows of canned baked beans.

It only took one drunk driver

And death fulfilled your wish

I still recall lying on the beige broadloom

Of our small ‘guest room’

Remembering an afternoon’s rough play

Observing in silent horror

My face wet with tears

Little skin flakes in the weave

My throat still goes into lockdown

I yearn for this itch to also leave.

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