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.