the fourth constellation

Tell me doctor
are you against mercy killing?
Think of me
as a cancer.
Each day grating away
at the other
as I type and retype
terminal illness
into my search bar.
But there’s no cure
for a malignant soul
and no respected
journal will admit
that it’s possible
for a body to reject
it’s own.
So I search further back
in time,
before pills and IV’s and
photosynthesis.
Because I’ve never felt them
but I can hear
the stitches behind my eyes
start to give way.
Feel them dissolve
and slowly allow
the bruised lump
to return to its own pulse.
The one it had
before it was transplanted
with a mother’s love
into this hog body
that now agrees
with it’s need to escape.
Perhaps always had,
in fact, agreed.
Childhood stunts reason
and some time must pass
to un-staple a tongue
from the palate
and allow it to hit
the keyboard
like a freshly caught salmon
to ask
You really think
you can wean me onto
a fear of death?