David Estringel

Medicine

You
are my medicine
when things are 
fever-pitched
fucked-up
shit
dismantled
glitched.
When calm
disperses
like cigarette smoke 
in fan blades, 
overhead—
tarring popcorn ceilings 
and textured walls
with burns and
invisible drops
of carcinogenic rain.
What better salve
for the poundings 
in my chest—
palpitations
consternations
vascularizations
reformations
indemnifications
of a life, juxtaposed,
away from those eyes
that mouth
that touch of skin, yours,
the sedation 
of cool breath 
on hot forehead
and the combing
of fingertips 
through currents
of sweat-matted hair—
this world I know. 
You 
are
my
medicine.

***

Originally published at Fire Dumpster Press