Tomás Q. Morín

for D’Andra


Though you would never admit it
I know you live for the hunt
of the microscope, the cycloptic

scan for the stained
bodies of the tubercle
and do they look like hot dogs

I ask, never having seen one,
and sooner or later
you tell me, something has to give

in the name of peace
and how long can they hold out
I ask, the tubercles that is,

and is there enough time
to visit Manhattan and cross
the Brooklyn Bridge by foot,

to finish reading the Hot Zone
in bed, to have a few children
to bolster our numbers  

and I’m sure at least one of them
will excel in the underrated
field of logic and then taunt

her classmates with horrific
tales of germs
with morals like “never

eat the peanuts at a bar”
and don’t you think we need
more people like that

to protect us, from the unseen
that is, because would anyone
really care if we were assaulted

by hot dogs and “please pass
the mustard,” most would say,
as they were coughing and retching

forth new tubercles
to barnacle along the pink
prow of the lungs your replacement

will no doubt survey
while we stroll the piers of Coney Island,
while we dine at Nathan’s.