Vomit

First, a rumbling.

Thunder and lightning

lines and signs rising

in my stomach,

a storm of acid – the ship creaks.

 

Then a tingling

beneath my nails,

my muscles rage

a fever, my knuckles raw

& eager – my throat tight,

 

my mind a flooded rice

field – a claw of mud,

green buds, a stir.

I reach bedside:

my trusty bucket –

pencil dull as bone,

palm-sized notebook curled

as noodle sheet in hot oil –

I grab

– and out it pours.

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