After Sharon Olds
I think of it as blasphemy now
to compare a sore throat,
however vicious, to a tumor.
But, the day I woke up
and was unable to swallow
I thought of the father and the glass.
I put my own spin on it -
I used an old honey
container. It was plastic
and every time I spit
the remissions of honey
linger on the rim of my
lips. Nasal drippage was falling
down my throat like soiled water
down a gutter drain and
I had to expel it or face
the wretched clenching
and scraping of fleshy walls.
The first was green like the luna moth,
puss wings spreading to meet
the rounded edges of a cage. Now,
spit bubbles like sea foam.
With each new admission,
a milky pod of whales rises
to the surface. Today the whales
are striped with blood. One
has a round gathering
like an eye - my little Jupiter.
It’s a kind of worship,
these offerings from
my insides. To dull the pain,
I’ll make a sacrifice of myself.
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