The revision--hope I cleared some of the mess up with this one. Further thoughts? (Sorry for the huge gaps here...)

SPICY MUSHROOM SOUP

That numb seeps again, even
at 33 Celsius.
Table swollen for dinner
guests: eating, merry, sturdy
folk. I sip coke and sit like
the 8 pills in my stomach:
hearing, sensing, musing. No
words. Smoke. Think of the charcoal
they made Jane choke down after

swallowing a whole bottle:
Tylenol, Winter ’02,
sweet 16. Had she done it
at numb, room temperature?
All this when Dan digests his
spice with 2 helping black, flat-
stone capsules. Maybe herbs. In,
he whispers, claims my disease
may ease with the right herbs. He’s

spotted progress in friends. We
breathe steam from Thai chili and
coconut broth: soaked lemon
-grass, gray mushrooms bob, while orange
oil congeals ‘round cilantro
sprigs. Now Dan’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: old heresy
of herbs. Not that I don’t trust
it worked for that native dance
-girl he met; I rule myself
out, though. If I believed this,
I’d want to believe You, too.
Miracles may not be my
problem. The question of You

doing them is nothing. You
do. It’s just this where and when
that gets me—for what? Meds and
herbs may be fall-backs; still, I
won’t bank on herbs. Shots, pills: Yours,
too. I’m used to them now: can’t
tell where You fit, or if I’ve
just one choice. Questions sink to
my numbness. You fit. You do.