There's something mystical in the gradual
decline. Like somehow I'm always trying
not to lose it in a Walgreen's. So profoundly
unstable in a phone booth by the sea. I'm calling out
to the water, to weather, the graceless weight
of days. So often I consider the pointless
arguing with the internet router.
Like, why me? Like successfully emoting
the illness in an alley. The bowing out
of bowling pins in erratic succession. Dear whoever
ties my shoes when I cannot any longer, please
lace them so tight my veins spool and knot. Not to
not be confused with the skillful fastening.
Like dislocating the most insignificant limb.
Hello—I am calling out to the inpatient directory.
Take me to the yard where the plants sprout
the strangest little arms. It's there I've been growing
the most beautiful tumor.
Dillon J. Welch is a writer from Southern New Hampshire. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in CutBank, ILK, PANK, Phantom Limb, Switchback and other journals. He is currently Editor for AMRI and Poetry Editor for Swarm. Find him at: www.dillonjwelch.com