Brian Turner Reads
Dreams from the Malaria Pills (Bosch)
Forward Operating Base Anaconda, Iraq
This time, it's 5 A.M. Lucid.
Bosch can see his own hands
lifting water to his face.
Sees himself reflected in the mirror,
an image of infinity, shaving
his beard and neck, the blade
silver and sharp under the fluorescent light,
as he reaches back with the razor
to scrape it over the smooth dome.
of consciousness, that concentric heat
peeling in strips like a rind of fruit,
the skin of a peach, down the forehead
and over eyebrows, cheek, and jaw,
sloughing the blood and skin in sinkwater,
repeating this, over and over again,
his eyes focused, unfazed.
Tonight, he lies in his bunk. The smoky moon
cools its muzzle of light with a cloudy trail.
Bosch soaks his forearms in lighter-fluid,
flares a match head and sets his skin on fire.
He repeats this to his thighs and calves
He burns his chest like a savanna.
By morning, even his head is on fire.
as the sun rises up over the earth at dawn
like the opened mouth of a flamethrower, 140 degrees.