Comorbidity

"Garlic, ginger, and echinacea,"
she recommended, as a counter
to my head firing the salvo shots of
war.

What a gift, the garlic, so
sticky to touch, smashed and
gnashed and mixed and swallowed at
meals.

As war dwindled to sporadic gunfire,
a minor insurgency, I crunched a
morning clove that made me
cry.

Its strength, then a vision of you, my
breathing deep held back
vomit -- a symptom of fulfillment
that is also one of lack.