Letter to the Doctor, or, The Lycanthropes Lament


Rumor has it you’re resorting
to your pipes and syringes again, your world
contracted from planet-sized,
where your friends are all at large,
into a fist-sized ball of opish. Little brown orb
where it is always summer, under an albino sun;
where there is no place for regret,
and all the pretty girls and boys
are required by custom to go naked,
so that the wearing of clothes is shameful.

Symptomatology, mine which only occurs
when the moon is full, and the dew upon the grass,
monthly, like some weird repeating menarche
involving other’s blood.

Yours, catalyzed by almost anything, a word, a star, a photograph,
happens at random times and places. The outcome is the same –
both of us oblivious to morals, mores, conventions –
both of us loping through the streets, unclad,
laughing.

I am no longer safe even in sunlight. Nor are those around me. Those nearest me.
You have never been safe. Nor have those who’ve loved you.

I write, I suppose, to let you know your diagnosis was correct.
To ask you for a word, some hope, perhaps a silver bullet,
if you ever come back from the haze.

Keep in touch, I must go now, I can hear the moon.