is it even a question?

Any thoughts on the new poem draft? All of this, based on tonight, really happened... I'm that original.

Probably line breaks, title, and other word-choicy things need improvement... You can comment on those things, if you'd like. Any constructive feedback is helpful and appreciated.

As ever, thanks and thanks for reading.

SPICY MUSHROOM SOUP

That numb seeps again, even at
33 Celsius. The table swollen
for dinner with guests—eating, merry,
sturdy folk. I sip coke and sit like the 8
pills in my stomach: listening,
sensing, musing. No

words. Smoke. Think of the charcoal
they made J. choke down
after swallowing a whole bottle:
Tylenol, Winter ’02, sweet 16.
And could she have done that
at numb, room temperature?

All this when D
digests his spice with 2 helping
black flat-stone capsules. Maybe herbs.
In, he leans, claims my disease
may ease with the right herbs. Spotted
progress elsewhere in friends—

D’s really selling.
If it’s the spice and the pills and
the coke, I don’t know, but I squint
and smile till we both start believing
I’ve not heard this before.
The ol’ heresy of herbs.

Not that I don’t believe it worked
for D’s friend T, or others—like that Native
American tribal dancer D met;
I just rule myself
out. If I can believe these things,
I want to believe you too.

Miracles may not be the problem.
The question that you do them
isn’t a question. You do.
It’s just this where and when
that bothers people—and for what?
Meds and herbs, well, are fall-backs;

but I’m not banking much on herbs.
Yet. The shots and the pills, these are yours
too. Used to it all, I can’t tell if I'm settling, or
if it's my only choice. Where
do you even fit? Is this question
fit for the numb? You fit. Is it even a question?