Bullet doux

Albrecht Dürer, Melancholia, engraving, 1514

Disoriented, brain-fogged, down at the mouth,

I consulted Dr. Despair, my longtime quack,

who swiftly put a finger on the case,

an acute autoimmune reaction to Western Civ.

Aside from aspects of the global South,

there’s not much left that I can hack or face

—I'm allergic, above all, to all talk of “race.”

“No worries!” grinned the furibund toubib,*

prodding me amiably under my missing rib.

“No fear that you'll for very long suvive!”

*French slang for “doctor,” from Arabic ṭabīb.

Thursday, April 10, 2025