A Boil

Reminds me I might not make it there, with-
out negative blood. Burnt boy gets burnt, banks
burst for those who bet on it and bought
bee balms, early. A boil impales, white blood
cells tack onto their blacker, blood brothers
while I burn in my man, did he do this
to me?
Why not tell me your blood combusts,
not like I would leave—I’d wrangle water
hoses, and still hose you, hold your juiced skin
in fruit bags, but you won’t know this. You are
mimicking death, and I am boiling my
dead God in the microwave, because I’m
not taking a pill today, and their flowers can
die. Doctor says breathe, you don’t have it [yet].

Prince Bush is a student at Fisk University, majoring in English. They have work forthcoming or in SOFTBLOW, Rhythm & Bones, Arctic Tusk, and Fisk Political Journal.

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