Bile intuition tells me
everything I need to know about my
worsening condition.
What the doctors would say
if they got their hands inside
me,
in articulate prose
with artisanal skins,
could only tell me
what I’ve always known.
All the women, all the wine
all the nights spent alone
could never save me
from metastasizing.
What angel would take
my hand in this bewitching hour?
What hope could I claim
if I caught the blood
in my palms?
If I go, I go in darkness
where photons dare not venture,
the sky a foreign map:
No home above, no home below.
Nothing left to see.