In the saltwater aquarium at the pain clinic

lives a yellow tang

who chews the minutes in its cheeks

while we await our unguents and anesthesias. 
The big gods offer us this little god

before the turning of the locks

in their Formica cabinets

in the rooms of our interrogation.
We have otherwise been offered magazines

with movie stars whose shininess

diminishes as the pages lose

their crispness as they turn. 
But the fish is undiminishing, its face

like the death mask of a pharaoh,

which remains while the mortal face

gets disassembled by the microbes of the tomb.
And because our pain is ancient,

we too will formalize our rituals with blood

leaking out around the needle

when the big gods try but fail
to find the bandit vein. It shrivels when pricked,

and they'll say I've lost it

and prick and prick until the trouble's brought

to the pale side of the other elbow
from which I turn my head away —

but Pharaoh you do not turn away.

You watch us hump past with our walkers

with the tennis balls on their hind legs,
your sideways black eye on our going

down the corridor to be caressed

by the hand with the knife and the hand with the balm

when we are called out by our names.
From On the Spectrum of Possible Deaths, Copper Canyon Press, 2012. Published with permission.

We're celebrating the life of Lucia Perillo all December. More details here. Previously: Monorail, and "Dona".