Jeffrey McDaniel

After a long day of stitching up
a forcefield between us
and those bastards 
with the palsied genitals
and their crossd-eyed deity,
I return to my capsule
and unwrap my uniform
twirled around me 
like a green mummy banner.

Of course, I want my mummy,
but she's not here. How I miss
her terra cotta lips, glistening
over the crib when I was an infant.

Has it come to this? Night
after 70-hour night
on the Martian battlefield.
I step into the shower
and let a stream of crushed
meteors nebulize 
over my body. Ah, dinner
I think, as the ruthless 
madrigals sing in the distance.

I towel myself dry, dropping
my eyes from the mirror
that bores into me, the mirror
that seems to read my thoughts. 

I joggle my knapsack of limbs 
to the mess hall. Screw
string beans. Buzz off
spinach peddler. I grab
a julep. Suck it down. Let it 
joggle my imagination.

I reach for the blackberries, ruthless
in their puckered sweetness, when
what appears to be a human tongue
flickers out of the whipped cream
and lashes me across the wrist.
Yes, this is what 

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