I’m trying to imagine a bigger infection than love and maybe there’s not. Maybe that’s why sickness swells in such small places: a mosquito speaking Portuguese, a plant turned carnivore, my grandmother slowly turning inside out. The problem with limbs is that they end. Remember when I asked you to kiss everything sad and by the next week your lips had fallen off? There was nothing left to do but buy a horse. And wait.
C. J. Miles lives in Iowa with his wife. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Forage and Algebra of Owls. Follow him on Twitter at @cjmilespoet.