Vasculitides

MATTHEW LEE

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I. Large

 

Time flows up Gene’s stiff neck

through her aching jaw,

wrinkling her temple,

blind to what comes next.

 

Takako sees the arch branch,

can’t remember the last time

she breathed—dizzy, blanch,

pulseless.

 

 

II. Medium

 

Sitting on the toilet,

Paul fingers his pearls in a cycle

as the stall’s walls rust

and his blood boils.

 

Kaori cries her eyes red,

her tongue redder,

scratching her palms & soles,

her heart a’spin & straining.

 

Full of burgers,

Bob can’t feel the cigarette

between his pale purpling fingers,

but he takes a drag anyway.

 

 

III. Small

 

Wagner wipes his nose.

See the blood he spills & expels—

just like how his granny died.

 

At the other urinal

Mike coughs & pees blood too,

but his nose is dry.

 

“Chug, Strauss!”

His pink lungs & heart sputter.

He just wants pancakes with butter

like his late granny used to make.

 

Henry had the sniffles.

Now he has scales,

a purple iguana

belly full of fire

crawling in agony,

a kid no more.

 

 

 

Each stanza of this poem corresponds to a particular vasculitis.