Achaan aghádaana’ígíí

Pulp lines the lips, blood

orange smoothie unfolds itself

slowly down the throat.

Air bubbles try to settle

out, but it will take some time.

That’s just monsters though,

when the roof of your mouth burns

or diarrhea

comes in fast and unwanted—

all that’s left to do is wait

and suffer, watch for tree

tips to catch fire. You know

dying time is near—

rapping on your windowpane,

ready to gather the foam.