for Arash Lavian, M.D.
Inhaling the early morning air, light,
soft, up the hill from the ocean,
I go to be pricked. The shots enter
my lower spine. A circuitous
spin through the canals
this Monday. Is the doctor’s spirit
infused? More to this poke and
wipe. His fingers have touched
the smooth skin of his infant child.
Something more fertile than damp
earth plants its floral fragrance
through my veins. A fish has swallowed
cortisone, sprouted wings.
*this is the second in a three-day series of poems The Opiate is publishing by Peggy Aylsworth. Read Day 1 here.