Love Is a Psych Ward Pa­trolled by Too Many Order­lies

The Iowa Review - - MATTHEW GWATHMEY -

They tell us, you are wor­thy of an un­der­study. Your de­cay just needs heavy doses of vi­ta­min C. Well, how much will they pay to watch us mate slowly? In the act, a cure can’t be con­fined com­pletely. Our souls go bump with pills washed down by herbal tea. And we en­joy the round ta­bles, speak­ing cycli­cally. They tell us, your legacy’s your legs, you see. So don’t hold back, wel­come your type-b per­son­al­ity— we’ve emp­tied all of our­selves. We’re cov­ered, lit­er­ally. They’ll still like our mouths, whether they’re bent or scarred, baby. Guilt, what guilt? What I see—a bag packed for Tripoli, the panop­ti­con dance chore­ographed both day and nightly. O, you can put your tax on me, your tax­on­omy.

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