She’s mixing portioning
eye closed musing
with her eyes and lips
dreaming therapy soup
with the smile of a hybrid angel.
she’ll switch herself
out of a crowd of leering.
She doesn’t want the risk
of deep water sinking
breathing in everyone else’s bruises
as if they were hers,
she has no antibodies for empathy
and she doesn’t want to be a nurse
Florence Nightingale curse
sounds so celibate and holy and lonely.