God save the fool who found that he was lactose intolerant on the day of his mother's wake-

-and of course he’ll say he drank cow’s milk all his life. his heatwave-stricken palms will be bare

and they'll twine like rough half-grown saplings into the fabric of the cosmos.

branches blood-encrusted bone-blades                                         

                                                                                                      and he’ll never notice the difference;

he was brought up with the taste of ichor always on his tongue.

in the summers he'll press his forehead against the searing bathroom mirrors and wipe away the tears/sweat

they pulled from his eyes. like lumps of calcite, like the colour of his baby-white toothpaste. 

he thinks they'll cost                                                    half a million. 

his uncle says the desert air in the suburbs                 almost worth half a million. the seasons come and go and he'll be left sucking the burnt ochre oxygen

of the time-out corner again. he wishes it were winter. just for once. but 

he'll never notice the difference anyway