Long Live Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy
Meridith Gresher

(for Terry Shiavo)

mber nefers harass a milkweed throat
and choke tomorrow’s Alexandria—AHAs, UVAs,
SUVs, and lip-gloss. A mind sarcophagused in cellophane, spliced
like the plane of time.

Coral reef—a private bed—a private sanatorium,
smells of oysters and honey.

The Ramones scream, “I wanna be sedated.” Eighteenth
Dynasty miscegenation.

I wrote this work when I wasn’t producing much else . I wrote it for me at a difficult time.

Fast forward one full year. I am putting together this FRiGG submission; Terri Shiavo is dying. At that time, I hear how “blissful” death by dehydration is supposed to be. But I am haunted by a news magazines report, a year previous, on illegal immigrants trying to cross from Mexico to America: in that desert between dreams, borders, and freedom, many die. I read the work over, realizing my words could be Terri’s. I want to give her my words.

Present time: I hear FRiGG will be going “live” as I’m under the flu, under quite a bit of dehydrating. Four days on water and nothing else is not a nice experience, certainly not blissful. My thoughts, again, have turned to Terri. And I wonder.

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