So He Hands Me The Tequila

The water is poisoned,
so he hands me the tequila,
and says, Well
we have to drink something, don’t we?
And it used to be that if you wanted to kill yourself
you had to try,
you had to
get your hands dirty
you had to want it bad
And now
even the water will kill you
and the skins of your apples
and the hours trapped
in offices
And the cigarettes
And the fumes
And the cops
And the zealots
And God, too

But no, we are living longer, I am told.
worshiping in Houses of Medicine
giving offerings of our bodies
for stacks of off-brand bandages
and cold medicine
Prostrating ourselves before IV’s
and machines meant to tell us what we are made of
because a god is anything you believe
can answer your questions
and I have laid down for you, too, Science,
in faith
in the name of The Scalpel, The Tourniquet, And The Almighty Asprin
I do not discriminate between sorceries
take me apart, please.

Fix me.

I am lists of symptoms,
reduced and compartmentalized
Open me up.
Lay all the pieces of me out and scrub them clean.
Tell me where my bones go.

The water is poisoned
and we are so unsurprised
that it seems overly dramatic
to even mention it.

The water is poisoned.
and we are writing headlines about
how we think Jennifer
ought to feel about Brad’s divorce.

The water is poisoned
and I watched a video today
of an empty-handed man
being gunned down in the street.

The water is poisoned
and sometimes I have
dreams about the apothecary
on the mountain
who taught me of the antimicrobial properties
of honey
and we are almost out of bees.

The water is poisoned
and they remind us
that there are worse ways to die,
to keep us grateful
for our right
to believe what we are told.

The water is poisoned
and my sister says,
Nina, you are so accustomed to cruelty
that you mistake acts of common decency
for grandiose kindness.

The water is poisoned
and I am wearing my heart as a statement piece
in a culture that hates criers.

The water is poisoned
and I still don’t know how to live in the world.

The water is poisoned
and I cannot raise my voice; I love you too much.
The water is poisoned, and I do not possess the rage
I am told is necessary,
is the only way to get anything done.
so I am searching myself for it
reaching into my chest
and pulling out ribbons
bits of lace
broken teeth
and cicada shells

The water is poisoned
and I keep looking into the faces of strangers
wondering what must have happened to them
to make them so mean.

The water is poisoned
and they are sick
and I am sick
and I keep thinking that if I lace my fingers
through theirs
if we can stand very still,
if I blur the line
between where my pulse ends
and theirs begin
If I can hold us all steady
for just a moment
the water will still be poisoned
but we will be warm
and we can be sick
together.