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Poems

To Wear Disease Around Your Neck

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.