Patient Nine, Session Notes

It creeps corpse to corpse,

stopping momentarily at the fatter

ones, nursing at old dead breasts,

but no milk comes, cold nipples

unresponsive to its hunger

and the fervent suck

of this crawling dirty infant, lost

in a sea of want and filth, left

to wander, ragged bones not aged

but aging with the setting sun,

and in the dust and light

receding on the rocks, shadows

slink. I see it then, there above

a bleeding wound, a fly's legs

stuck in yellowed pus

collecting on its forehead...

Is this you? Is this perhaps, your soul? Are these your sins?

Your personal economy of stress, the dynamics

of failure, perhaps, presented as-

Do you smell it? I can still smell it -

that hot river of sludge,

of outstretched arms

attached to no bodies,

floating by, sinking, then emerging,

followed by those gnawing fish

getting fat while they

nibble away the ragged skin,

slipping swiftly in and out

from between the muddied fingers -

At last! At last, no longer bound,

they drift in silence onward...

Let's stop for now.

It found a rock to lie

on, and pissed the muddy

water it drank, down its legs

and then just laid in it…

We’ll stop here, okay?

…but only you can take my head

and shove it back

inside my chest.

I watch you make your notes,

and close the book,

insisting we should meet

again tomorrow.