Leper Ward
I have less fingers,
my thumbs are hump-backed turtles.
We are a peculiar odor of skin flakes.
We are a smoking club,
cigarettes are tucked between nubs.
Blue smoke bleeds from our gums.
Nothing here is as it was or should be.
A young white man visits us, his Thai is poor,
we laugh at his accent.
He looks at my feet,
He pokes his long nose
into my sores
I resent him. …if he heals one ulcer
I know another will come.
I listen as he struggles for the right words,
smile and nod. He does not know yet -
there are no right words.
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