pestle

two day hike,
i have to carry you half the way because
you’re too weak at this stage

witch confirms it, you’ve got it: still stomach

grated bamboo shoot, chamomile, leaves of lime
mushroom stem

for days, you lay in agony,
while i pour my heart into that pestle
sweat dripping off my brow into that porcelain bowl

we translate what little energy we have into prayer
and every day our prayers are rejected,
your shit comprised of undigested leaves and berries
smell of rot but not of acid

on the fifth day of the tea regimen,
you promise me that if you don’t shit normal shit, you’ll kill yourself today.

we find half a salad in your excrete
and i wait for your cue, bracing myself for my role as non-intruder
i watch the promise leave your eyes, replaced by fear and need

this is what the apocalypse is: people assured of their own death,
unable to stop fighting it