Autoimmune

E. F. Schraeder

My body, the snake,
sleeps coiled in the cool shade,
a curl of weeds.

The ailments, unknown
whispers and echos
of things unseen

the blue-white shimmering
promise of radiography,
exposing internal things,

reveals nothing.
Cavernous questions
surround the normalcy.

So I decide my body is a wasp,
buzzing electric
and easy to piss off—
so leave it alone.