Pharaoh
Lucia Perillo

In the saltwater aquarium¹（水族馆） at the pain clinic
 lives a yellow tang
 who chews the minutes in its cheeks 
 while we await our unguents（药膏） and anesthesias（麻醉） .

The big gods offer us this little god
 before the turning of the locks
 in their Formica cabinets
 in the rooms of our interrogation（审问） .

We have otherwise been offered magazines
 with movie stars whose shininess
 diminishes as the pages lose
 their crispness（易碎，清新） as they turn.

But the fish is undiminishing, its face
 like the death mask of a pharaoh,
 which remains² while the mortal face
 gets disassembled by the microbes of the tomb.

And because our pain is ancient,
 we too will formalize our rituals with blood
 leaking out around the needle
 when the big gods try but fail

to find the bandit vein³. It shrivels when pricked⁵,
 and they'll say I've lost it
 and prick⁴ and prick until the trouble's brought
 to the pale side of the other elbow

from which I turn my head away—
 but Pharaoh you do not turn away.
 You watch us hump past with our walkers
 with the tennis balls on their hind⁶ legs,

your sideways black eye on our going
 down the corridor to be caressed⁷
 by the hand with the knife and the hand with the balm（香油） 
 when we are called out by our names.