By Cade Leebron
Call me Curly-Q for the swirled snake
IV line spiraling out of my upper arm.
Nothing perfect ever ends, or that’s a lie
I’m okay hanging out with. It’s late
here in Middletown, it’s unspecific.
His hands tap fake drum beats to get
the drip rate just right, love tastes
like prednisone. In the hospital a trainee
makes me waterfall all over the room. Gore
is a biohazard, and he misses the best
parts. I tell it to him after, like: you should
have seen her face! My arm was a spout,
his hands are like drums, lately neither
of us feels real. I call him Curly-Q for
the way his hair loops around and around
his face like a snake. We’ve become
something unspecific, same as this town
that probably exists in almost every state.
I rename it Diagnosisland and like our love
or a stretched-out vein, it lasts forever.
Cade Leebron lives in Columbus, OH. She holds an MFA from The Ohio State University, where she served as an editor at The Journal. Her work has appeared in The Boiler, American Literary Review, Electric Literature, and elsewhere. She exists online at www.mslifeisbestlife.com, and on Twitter, @CadeyLadey.