I READ NEWSPAPER IN THE GYM

I coughed that last time, remember?
And went non-stick in the gym – I
hated the place first time I laid eyes
on it; built a self-teaching machine
from all the barbells –

went manual in the medicine ball corset
because I couldn’t trust it handing my
head and shoulders back after submerging
in the wet newspaper of shed cells.

Because a cough is a sea mine
with corks skewered by the spines.
Roll it across a wad of bubblegum –
it rolls unimpeded, like a ghost’s breath
steamrolled through bread crumbs.

Fever’s automation was disabled.
Suddenly it became a plume; like, suddenly
there was a plume walking my glands
like roadkill on a fucking leash.
Blocked on electronic spinal cord;
grappling with piercings in the blood.