Candid

I will make you feel so sick.
There will be no art in it.
I will lean you over the seat
of a pristine toilet.
Your body will bend
to my order.
Your ribs will cool,
shivering
against the porcelain;

When your reflection
jellies the water,
you will see yourself.
I will see myself.

I want you sick
on all the multiples
of cancer.
You must heave
with all the virtues
of perspective.

You will get married.
You will die of cancer.
I will help you.