Half-Life

You scratch your feet
for hours, coaxing
shy blood.

            Blisters
map your progress
from ankle to instep to toe.

            Branches
of a diseased elm
at the night window.

. . .

They tuck you into a steel sleeping bag,
ease a laser eye down your throat.

You don’t call, so I make soup.

An offering.

. . .

In the midnight waiting room,
imagining the soul as a wafer,
pod split and half-unshelled.

Here in this house of souls
I remember our skin
sweating together.

. . .

Prayers like smoke.
Can they penetrate, sidle
between molecules
to some hovering god?

. . .

Roses, havens for bacteria,
I carry out of your hospital room.
Away also with baby’s breath
and homicidal ferns.

Under the car door,
one lethal petal in
the dust.

G. F. Boyer has published poems in a number of journals, including The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, RHINO Poetry, and Heron Tree. She lives in rural Pennsylvania, where she edits and manages the Clementine Unbound poetry website and works as a freelance editor. Her full-length book, Missile :: Hymnal :: Amulet, will be released in late 2018 or early 2019 by FutureCycle Press.

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