issue four / panacea
THE DOCTOR SAYS
Grim Holliday
the doctor says, do you come here often? yes.
sometimes, after saint peter marks my calendar
for me, I dream about the lamp in the operating
theater. the big one, head and body like a snake. I
take the bulbs out and put them where my eyes
should be. I dream about the nurse in the prep
suite, who lets me bring my grave-dirt to surgery.
lain down like a possum in the gurney, clutching
palmfuls of soil to my neck like a teddy.
the doctor says, explain your symptoms. I say,
god and I don't speak. we sit down to eat. the
cows are infected with cows. the sheep are
infected with plastic sheets. the fish are infected
with mercury. the family’s infected with me. I
lead myself to yellow pastures, I sleep in mud
heaps, I eat bitter wheat.
the doctor says, what is the sin of Gomorrah? the
saint of questions that turn into a steel cage. I tell
my sister, imagine you are a sinner, and lo came
Lot with two angels for all to see. there they walk
among the people, and still have clean feet.
crowned with light and robes with gold
embroidery — who could say they would not want
to know them? not me.
sometimes, after saint peter marks my calendar
for me, I dream about the lamp in the operating
theater. the big one, head and body like a snake. I
take the bulbs out and put them where my eyes
should be. I dream about the nurse in the prep
suite, who lets me bring my grave-dirt to surgery.
lain down like a possum in the gurney, clutching
palmfuls of soil to my neck like a teddy.
the doctor says, explain your symptoms. I say,
god and I don't speak. we sit down to eat. the
cows are infected with cows. the sheep are
infected with plastic sheets. the fish are infected
with mercury. the family’s infected with me. I
lead myself to yellow pastures, I sleep in mud
heaps, I eat bitter wheat.
the doctor says, what is the sin of Gomorrah? the
saint of questions that turn into a steel cage. I tell
my sister, imagine you are a sinner, and lo came
Lot with two angels for all to see. there they walk
among the people, and still have clean feet.
crowned with light and robes with gold
embroidery — who could say they would not want
to know them? not me.
issue four / panacea
40th Verse
Grim Holliday
THE SUN SETS WHEN SHE WANTS TO
even if I think it’s too early. Well, okay. It’s
alright, darling. I wish I could remember
all those unfavorable things I wanted to
say. I SOLD MY HEART TO A RED SPIDER,
maraschino, soft little thing with the
prettiest fangs, and so small you could see
the light through the flesh of her long legs.
SHE PAID IN DIAPHANOUS STRING and
two dozen golden eggs. I watched her
string up a beetle three times her weight.
SO WHAT IF I WANT TO BE BITTEN?
Why’s all that so bad, anyways? Troubling
my lip until it turns to red wine, troubling
my mother’s stories until they become
mine. I WANT TO SING FOR PLUM
FAIRIES, let them carry my lungs out to
the purple mountains. Let them cut my
hair and braid it into a trap for something
sweet and tame. I BELIEVE IN KNOCKING
THRUSHES and the wind through the
willow trees. I tell my sister to leave her
shoes unlaced, I tell her not to look at
beautiful things. SOMEWHERE OUT
THERE IS A FOX living in a hollow tree,
and every morning he eats of my liver
while he is eaten by fleas. IS LOVE
SUPPOSED TO BE BLOODSUCKING OR IS
IT JUST ME? Miles upon miles upon
vineyards of smoldering grass like
brimstone. That way, through the trees, is
where home awaits me. I’M HUNTING
EAST. Sweet dreams, Nike.
even if I think it’s too early. Well, okay. It’s
alright, darling. I wish I could remember
all those unfavorable things I wanted to
say. I SOLD MY HEART TO A RED SPIDER,
maraschino, soft little thing with the
prettiest fangs, and so small you could see
the light through the flesh of her long legs.
SHE PAID IN DIAPHANOUS STRING and
two dozen golden eggs. I watched her
string up a beetle three times her weight.
SO WHAT IF I WANT TO BE BITTEN?
Why’s all that so bad, anyways? Troubling
my lip until it turns to red wine, troubling
my mother’s stories until they become
mine. I WANT TO SING FOR PLUM
FAIRIES, let them carry my lungs out to
the purple mountains. Let them cut my
hair and braid it into a trap for something
sweet and tame. I BELIEVE IN KNOCKING
THRUSHES and the wind through the
willow trees. I tell my sister to leave her
shoes unlaced, I tell her not to look at
beautiful things. SOMEWHERE OUT
THERE IS A FOX living in a hollow tree,
and every morning he eats of my liver
while he is eaten by fleas. IS LOVE
SUPPOSED TO BE BLOODSUCKING OR IS
IT JUST ME? Miles upon miles upon
vineyards of smoldering grass like
brimstone. That way, through the trees, is
where home awaits me. I’M HUNTING
EAST. Sweet dreams, Nike.
Grim is a queer illustrator and writer living in the PNW. Their work has a variety of influences, but the occult, the spiritual, and animal are the most present throughout.