Wart Remover

it never occurred to me,

            this virus on the pout

of my thumb, multiplying as

            sheep scat; a cluster of what ate. swelling

like a slapped face, a head at

            the site of a hammer. at night,

i dream of my black skin smooth

            as american highways, a jar without

the glue of  labels, a floor free

            of cooking crumbs and red sauce as

splat as my heart. the surface of which

            i’ve never touched but is touched

daily by surges of sniffling desire,

            hardened liquids of  have-nots. it doesn’t work,

this bottle, when i open its dime-sized

            neck and take out the dropper, feeding it to my thumb,

an opened beak. week after week, i medicate,

            but it always comes back even after the white coffin,

its smother of acid carrying a holy text

            with common promises of removal.