The Zit on my Butt
Holly Day
Momma always said I could never
leave well enough alone. Started small
couldn’t even see it
no matter which way I twisted in front
of the mirror, late night flashbacks-
wasn’t it here in Florida
that that one fat truck driver got one
turned into some flesh-dissolving strain of strep
that left him crippled and mutilated for life?
Reach around, feel
the tiny mute Braille
scratch, tug at my skin
feel the lump
growing hard
and “Damn it!” next morning
I can see it now, feel it every time
I sit, invisible bump grown to yellowing knob
wart on the end of my tailbone, too many
dreams: my skin swollen black
raging fever ripping my body in half, supermarket
tabloid husband crying, “I didn’t know she was
that sick!” wake to sweaty sheets, oily skin
and new company budding
beside the first.