No Other Choice

because there is no other choice
the daily resurrection occurs
like clockwork, the minutes clacking
past, wheels on iron through the
thick folds of brain coiled tightly
around the brainstem, ivory
mottled by bloodspecks, the
malevolence sighted under the
glass, the round screwed
down hard upon the plates,
scrutinizing the replication of
the viral chains linking, one
to another, banded worms roiling
in their own world, microscopic

on the scald the pot, the
tongue, held in check only
for as long as it takes
to swallow the liquid, nut
brown, only lightly acquainted
with milk.

the arc of the day: spent in
removing foreign fibres, stringing
letters together, mixing matter
thickly with a spoon and
pouring it into the pan

until night falls, the black of it
a dull sheen of carbon paper

she washes the soil of the
day from her hands, the
day done and ended