Like his grandson’s toy, the Russian army swiftly re-assembles itself in Belarus, Donetsk, and Crimea with blood banks, field hospitals, mess tents, and mysterious HQs marked by geodesic domes, dark inside where the orders arrive and are mistaken for Tarot and silently obeyed-- this the way the tumor surrounds my friend’s esophagus from many staging points in his throat and abdomen— the thyroid, the intestines, the nether regions no one would willingly travel in conditions like these. This is where the rages we never got to speak have gathered, and who can blame us given the awfulness we have banked inside? It strangles so that we can’t eat and no longer think of eating. We wait out the wreckage the body can do to itself in some subterranean station decorated in hues of another century our daughters and grandsons have never imagined. And into this come the healers, charged with excising ills as our insides get chewed once more this morning through a port, this hole dug in our soul, meant to make us a new life— here, or in the long dreamed of other side.
©2022 Alan Walowitz
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