I am laying on the mattress—

mummy covered in cold bugs,

squares of damp paper towels

napping on my arms. The embalmment

happens under the yellow glow of

my bedroom light. Under me—

­­­­the drum of disease, metallic scratches.

Crashing bodies made of plastic in my

spray-painted veins. Yeah, the tea won’t

drown them. If the proteins aren’t alive,

their cage will yield its senses. I am picking

up my finger, ladling tea. Mom blurred

into the starry backdrop. The cub has

grown wounds on the earthquake-

soaked battlefield. Isn’t this how the

folktale goes? In a decade I’ll be over her

faded blankets, bleeding cough drops

& stories into her mouth. The past

dissolving when the body calls

to be treated. My wrinkled eyes

glistening back to me soon after.

Now, I am microwaved. Blanching in

sweat, ripples of unrest. Then it goes—

aching, tossing. The vertigo. Until I

un-origami in the kitchen, crying

for the hand I never seemed to want.

Making tea & burning skin.

We’re watching the progeny evolve.