The Opium Den

I am sailing in the conch
In the red and purple of the
Somniferum
We can’t blame our forgetfulness
On barbiturates and morphine or pipes any longer
The good doc says we’ve laid down too many miles
The containers, red tape, country codes, time zones
I’ve been in a swim for a few weeks
There is a new girl at the market here
But her baskets and beads are not and her gossip is old too
The cowry she was selling looked glazed and shiny
Toxic, think epoxy
Why can’t things just be?
My mind wanders as her mouth is moving
Perhaps not- more shadows
Still though. I hear the words

Saying her lapas are 25. a piece
I want to spit and do
I will just go to china town before winter and buy
Fabric off bolts there, or muslin from Rosie’s and dye it
In the wine barrels, maybe just soak myself in them as well

She is still telling lies as I walk away
We know the truth but then again
If we can remember
Then surely we were not there
I let the spit fill my mouth
Before I leave the market I want to
Toss out used gauze and medical tape
Band-aides and old iodine bottles, a tourniquet, swabs
Create a sculpture around her booth for the afflicted and ailing
She is wounded- infected- remember the sand flies?
And needs an altar, seen or unseen
…yes, still praying