Midwife Man
Julia wants to die in the hot tub but the fool doctor says no, too dangerous. It’s her time. Blood-bag sky, full moon aching like a cervix. I boil hot-tub water. Turn on the pulsating jets, light a patchouli circle of candles. I dress Julia in her black silk pajamas, detach the morphine pump from her stuttering pulse. She is all skin and eaten-out bone, weightless in my arms as a sac of flute-song. I sit on the edge of the tub, bearded legs opening like a woman’s, and ease my Julia into water. Her black pajamas blacken. Julia cannot swallow but she holds a wine glass, ...
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