KETAMINE THERAPY

but really, it’s to stop the horrors of surgery awake. my body gurneyed with its pain, the abscess unready to burst anywhere but within me

I climb the injection’s crest to space and scream into stars, where he who will not return my calls is crouched astride me. he says I’m sorry of our bed gone dry, his final gift of infection left to swell within me where space now blooms full forgiving over six months of parallel orbit in a new city, a garden dug flowers and flowers

back to earth. the bloodwet bed, rigored in the loss of all that garden path. so this is love, I think. thirty Sundays and flowers, flowers. now I have known it, and now I see any shadow could take the empty space beside me. is it done? I ask the pale nurse. not yet, she says, but she is wrong. It is, it is.