Sunday, May 13, 2012


I still have my tonsils. They used to be polka-dotted
with holes, like the remnants of a phosphorous
mountain that slow-burned for centuries until
one day they just went out. Now they're smooth,

like two barren hillocks, serving no purpose
but perhaps as a memory of a land that was 
when they were alive and infectious. Two interior
landmarks referred to in radio traffic reports,

although no longer congested but moving swiftly
and perhaps one day destined for removal because
there are apartments to be built. The landscape
has changed: few expanses of empty lots now, 

clogged with fugitive kiosks, squalid and mutilated, 
like many answers. There are mouths to be fed and 
history produces nothing edible. I like to admire my 
tonsils, intact after so many pugnacious years.