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.