poem by DS Maolalai

The problem could be caused by her husband

 

they keep taking biopsies. it’s driving her

crazy she says. it’s not like it’s different

each time than the last time,

but they say there’s a risk still

of cervical cancer, and it means

she can’t fuck for a week. this is every

nine months now – I go crazy myself,

and we fight more and know why we’re fighting.

and then it’s her period afterward anyway.

I just know we will tear ourselves apart.

she tells me that this time she gave in

to some instinct and asked if the problem

could be possibly caused by her husband. I don’t take

it personally – I’ll abstain if it means

she’ll survive. it’s not. there’s a poisonous air

in our living room, and our bedroom

and even the lifts. over the river the brewery

is boiling up hops on a 5pm schedule.

it’s been going on weeks.

every day when I get home from work

the air smells half like biscuits, a bit

like burned toast and a little like fish

bone and rot.

poem by DS Maolalai

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