It is not commanded.
Not peaceful nor calm.
Not the warriors clad in white
trained to protect their queen.
She doesn’t wear a robe,
but an apron of pale blue
and listens to her advisor speak
not of devotion, loyalty, or love.
Instead he has a warning.
Their purpose forgotten,
her soldiers attack and
her bed floods with blood.


Ode to Vitamin B12


My terminal ileum—a stricture
half-digested eggs,
milk, and meat, neglecting
nutrients I need. Without
the strawberry red
liquid vitamin B12, my brain
and shuts down.
With a 1.5-inch needle, I extract
the 1mL vial and plug
into its battery
as I stab my naked
thigh, installing the vitamin,
rebooting neural networks.
This amped little 1mL vial,
taken once a month,
keeps me at full capacity
so I won’t be defunct.