Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

My angels leave me in the city square
to fend for mine self with a broken leg
and all I wish to do is weep,
but I don’t beg for their indulgence.

You tell me you don’t love a lot of things,
but those you love, you do love mindfully.
And me? I love this world, enfastened crookedly,
though mostly when persisting in’t.


And pain might limit every sense but two,
and if you close your eyes, you just might catch
the average Joe Anarchist annunciate
o’er traffic rushing swiftly over land.

Here, water may be hot; the rectum, feminized,
bleeds out inconsolably, much like sliced pork BBQ.
I note the wigged-out eyes of these bemused,
bedraggled dogs brought out here to parade to you.


Our earnings rattle in the back as we drive up the hill
for you to take flight home where to repose.
And me? Well, I did have no plan to lose
another part to argument, or surgery.

But, either way, I am awoken just to be awake,
then put to sleep just to be fast asleep.
In evening, my dun pain gets only worse,
and in the morning they will load me in a cab.


Meanwhile, they ask the doctor in to tell apart
the good meat from the bad, and to excise the pain.
I think of you when I’m laid out in care of bed,
all while my angels look for seams in vain.