Laudanum Poem by Luke J. Holt

I am the mossy air
coughing computations into the torpid billow of curtains,
i have come to feel as though my sadness has sired a warrior s soul;
warring on me
battling only I, himself.
i wait at tolls shooting storks from the sky

i ll breathe you a lake
and please refuse it

you want an ocean?

a god s lung is needed
i am the Vietnam of the clean camp

Mother Laudanum waits
with an indifferent stethoscope