Ask Me About Tagamet
Chad Davidson


Describe for me the vaulted heavens
of your gut and of the angels
soaring there. We are of similar binding,

those black wraiths and I.
I traffic, too, in dark solemnities.
I wear my nametag like a dagger.

You may unscabbard, if you wish.
With this pill, I promise sleep
its full fare down your throat

and half of night. I promise pain
is just a suburb still not linked
with light rail to the bustling

now. I promise meat and cheese,
some olives skewered in gin.
Luxury, I know, is just a form

of medicine. The choir sings
off-key, but what then purifies
the air, pulling acid, pulling shame

from every pew? And sickness:
that’s just prayer. It doesn’t rid the body
of, but riddles it, with hymns

rank with ulcer. I’d be lying
if I said the world was godless.
I know more happiness than that.

I know digestion’s not a city
people live in. It survives
as metaphor, a Tartarus of made

and soon-to-be, eaten next
to Eden, which evening makes
of television, as you lounge

and pick the ribeye from your teeth.
Ask me of the origins of fire.
I will tell you of the pit.

 

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