Phage
I hate the blank page’s contagion
The way its stark void instantly infects
If I don’t pin me down to the page
With the points of p and q
Discover the creeping rot
And cut it out
I might lose whole pieces
To my plight
Words are my incision and my deep penetration
The lens of my microscope
My agur and autoclave
The tiny pills that cure by killing
By my filling this infectious space
Willing to let tiny pieces of me die
To save the whole
I need an IV of saline tears and blurred ink
On a page slowly losing its infectibility
Shrinking beneath the rush of my words
I fill my pen with my blood
Inject it into the fiber and lines
Stain the page and watch the contagion die.
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