Vectors

The hole in my head’s getting bigger,

expanding at the pace of my heart,

which pumps blood there to help me

survive vectors of virulence aimed

my way. I can’t find the road,

only a barely walked path that

winds through woods so deep I hear

my heart, which has slowed

to the speed of branches waving

in the breeze above my body.

Blood is everywhere, not just

mine but everyone’s, nuns

in France, sheiks in Bahrain,

running down drains in shower floors,

spilling down stairways through

gates no one thought to close.

The hole in my heart’s expanding

at the rate the one in my head shrinks,

which my shrink thinks a good start

toward wiping blood off my hands

that don’t wave to anyone anymore.