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Dancing with Lyme
By Cathy Donelan
It took the life out of me.
Cold sweats with a shiver of something new –
a ‘ningle’, if that’s even a word.
It doesn’t sit right on the flat of my tongue
but I can feel it in my stomach.
They prefer to travel, crawling
rocks around one’s neck.
It found solace.
taking words and places from me too.
They burn you for killing them.
Sadistic bastards set a fire in the brain,
started a revolution in patches of muscle,
built trenches beneath.
Bulging lymphatic lumps,
golf balls emerge from my feet.
Casualties will be had,
unavoidable in all wars of territory.
Small traces will linger
a new landscape is mapped.
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