Got so high I finally felt like myself.
—DIIV
The average child is the dead one—
no, honey, in a past tense
pastiche sense. That sad old Victorian
kind of true. Forget the children.
Our poor skies are chock
full of rocket ships
with nurses cut in fat white lines
outside each cockpit door. Nurses
who would kill to be pilots,
nurses who will say damn
when our blood leaves stains
on their pretty shoes,
nurses chasing sky cred—
& we’re stuck down here
filling out intake forms.
Our fluorescent bedroom eyes
humble us to the tic-tic-
tic of paranoia
sneaking a quick smoke break
before it unplugs the last
few heart machines. A needle
quivering over a bulb near death
is pulsed through,
is slowed by,
is blinked out, is left to vacuum
dust from our eyes. Listen.
We’re 78% chlorine bleach
with a needle. The sting
reminds us of family honesty,
ready to erupt
in one vast, rapturous murmuration.
We just pray they don’t lose suction,
so all we do is pray:
Give me milk for blood—
no honey, thanks.
If they can’t save us
a bed, I wish they’d help us
figure out if this slit dream
is our last daylight artifact
or just some strange
kind of vapored navy.
These are only facts.
S.R. Aichinger is finishing his MFA in creative writing at Creighton University in Omaha, NE.
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