The bag bites. It hangs flaccid,

a visceral reminder

of what I no longer have.


I hunger all the time,

a response to a lack of storage

to drink, drink, drink

so dehydration isn’t one more problem

to be contended with.


But that means a massive outlay

of excrement… effluence … shit


They say to name it,

to bond with the stoma.

to make it my own, my pal.

Yeah, I’ll bond with that hole

that erupts when I’m out

and covers my clothes

with rank leavings.


Well my PAL is named ASS

because that is what it now is.

An opening surgically made

like a sausage, it’s casing oozing.


Sitting on my belly so pretty

a little rosette,

7/8 of an inch wide, 1/2 of an inch high

proudly proclaiming center stage.


All attention, all honor,

an entire body held hostage

by something perverse.


But …at least  . .  .  I’m alive . . .

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