I try to kill the pain with something chemical
that I can not pronounce nor swallow well.
I only know if I take all the pills at once, I’m dead.
Someone has mixed some kinds of poison
to make a medicine, or at least he calls it so; imagine
the hunchbacked alchemist in his moldy dungeon.
The toad he must have tried it on went all purple just before it died.
The crazy alchemist is laughing. Among the seven
other pills I take is now his magic blending in, from my stomach to my guts.
All is entering my blood. A dead toad’s resting on the slimy stony stairs,
the alchemist makes potions now of a lizard’s eye. It’s night.
Meanwhile the pain’s not going anywhere, like any hero it will not die but fight.