poet & physician

 
 
 
 
 

The gods insisted: a change of scenery.
Through the tilted sky, through the slow 
waves, I slept. And suddenly, my mother 
and I again on that strand: how she gathered 
me in, how gently she wet my mouth, 
as mothers do, when her head 
exploded into a cherry cloud of ichor
that tasted exactly like milk.

from “Pegasus"
Lammergeier, Issue 9