The Gift

I can see his epiglottis, a moth inside a banjo
and I’m going with the flow from wrist to chest,
silk running through a magician’s fist, crimson
deepening with the oxygen load.

How are you feeling? A storm flashes inside
his bald dome, his fillings are a ring of standing stones.
I study the vaulted abdomen, branched bronchi
and glistening lungs. Tea slips from stomach

to bladder, gathering between wings of pelvic bone.
Are you hallucinating now? He glances up from notes:
say nothing and I could go home. Speak, and he’ll steal
the gift, prescribe a chemical blindfold.



Roy Marshall