Poem by Carsen Suh 

Art by Hadrian OGarro 

The messenger’s breath

stung, he arrived without warning.

No,

he is the warning.

Dry ice, crushed leaves

but I know not to kill him.

It’s warm! 

Actually–  

Yeah,

balmy out today.

I took a cold shower

and I haven’t had coffee in three days

and I stretched, too, had

my one cup of water

this morning.

Should be enough.

Breakfast was good

because I got it in town

where the food is real.

I ought to stop playing it so safe.

Nothing, not

even fresh air will do it.

Comfort won’t make you feel alive.

When I lean to the left

and turn that way, a little

something

clacks

or dings

or ticks or

taps.

I think it’s the front, one

of the spokes is broken

or a couple.

Then again I listen to music

too loud so

maybe it’s the back.

I hope not.

Two there I already had to twist into

ugly half-bows and

they’re bayonets, my

fingers a mob armed with stones.

Try and think of anything but

before, or later

on, or anything that’s not

a big load

of laundry, a

sixty-percent chance of rain on

Saturday or

being totally broke and

abandoned in seven, maybe

eight years, or

tripping over your words

yesterday, with the veil over your eyes

and the molasses drenching your mind.

Masochism, that’s

how you fix it.

A quick dose lifts the

veil, soaks up the

molasses, makes you bleed or

bruise, but hopefully not

sprain or tear or

break;

render you too fragile to

ride, because then

how will people know you do?

But I drink my milk, I

Stretch, and

I like to think

my strong bones are protected by

strong meat that’s

stronger than

their Sum.

So I heed the messenger

since his next warning won’t

be so gentle.

Then come the hot irons, a

Flash

of unseeing

and I don’t even think of the shower.

It’s just concrete

that’s harder in the cold, and

black or purple in the

same palm as always, and

clenched teeth like

a vice

and there’s

Nothing

But

now.