What are the symptoms of wanting
outlets to melt in your hand, stick
to your cheeks with cheap licorice?
I console my batteries like dying
crickets. Wait for that leg to sputter,
the mic in its thighs to gain power.
Pure water isn’t very conductive.
I dare you to drink from wetlands
that don’t transform your feet to rubber.
The electric tongue, stilled in new tar.
Lily pink lingers on your fingers, misty
on the matter if it was Advil or candy.
It’s not about healing anymore
but liquefying your spine into
rivers brimmed with biomass.