The ebola necklace at the flea market
was not in the shape of a microbial
ambiguous blur, nor did its reddened
insides resonate on a blue slide.
No, the item was not an artist’s rendering
of some surreal flattened figure.
The ebola necklace gemstone
was a vial in which liquid
shifted as its steel chain-link swung
before the pale vendor gushing
about the ebola necklace.
The worm-like replication
floated peacefully in its cage
hanging from a wooden rack
among the inane as privileged customers
laughed while touching the novelty,
the disease only temporary to them;
it, the object between plump, pallid fingers ̶
the ebola necklace at the flea market.