I saw an angel in a teacup on a screen.
The invisible hand slaughtered it.
Demand evolved to give us inner-tubes and blue eyes.
Fireworks blazed on the billboard behind our house. Relentlessly, the markets provided
magic. We overheard many die quietly, and felt like commercials
for hearths lit by fake logs. The inauthentic faux-hissing
of screens puzzled me. The extraordinary premises
the ordinary; I wore my palm
like an eye patch to silence the migraine. I stood
near the rotting wood window like a screened seraphim,
a girl on film making pain precious.
I pimped my pain-peonies for social media.
Later, a wise screen told me that starlings take turns
sitting on eggs, though the mom always nominates
herself for the night shift.
The surgeon said do not run, do not bend, do not move
except to get water or go potty. If you can’t follow instructions, no one
can help you. A screen told me two cute
radiologists read my film wrong.
I wore a fake log to the wake for my third misdiagnosis.
We overheard an eye patch telling a teacup demand had evolved.
My stitches kept getting infected. My peonies
acquired some fungi. A screen sold me
a pain angel of positivity.
I stayed lit for the starlings on night shifts.