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Sinkflowers

sinkflowers

LOOK UP NOW. Things are on the move, on the mend. Gums healing nicely. Stones passed and in little jars. Polyp recalled by this waning August moon.

Outside it rains. The late summer fruit is rotting, dropping to the earth. At first light crows in the hundreds swarm and scream and brawl, drunk on composting apples. Inside, well, coffee is no longer just a laxative. With even cheap vodka one can make many flavorful liqueurs. She says We’re out of coughdrops, make me a nice Presbyterian.

I’m low on tweed.
Whiskey’ll do nicely.
We’re very excited.

She holds magnets in both fists. For circulation. Armature magnets, six ounces each. She traces them along her arms, from artery to capillary, urging her lush Hungarian blood into tighter spaces. She puts them down in order to drink. She smacks her lips. What a delicious break from potatoes.