The Treatment Was an Infusion of Loam
- Jun 27, 2025
- 2 min read
by Gordon Taylor
The science was sound. Loam alone wasn’t enough, but when mixed with saline and injected, the effect answered every question. Every shout, sharp as a birthday candle flame biting a finger. Felt. Every cancer cell switched back to love, a Valentine’s Day card. No more — is the path to survival pretending not to be queasy. No more — what is the difference between illness and leaving. Between intravenous bags and my sick belly, a mess of crimson moss. Between tiger lilies smoldering at the hospital bedside and cigarette ends. No more — was each number in the anesthetist’s countdown fear or confidence. Was the long-drawn incision, a line on the map of a world. Was the question, what will you hold tighter if you recover. Was the science sound. My cheek rested on a lover’s chest, bright field of blonde wheat, freshest medicine. He whispered; we don’t need to know long-term efficacy of the treatment. Just touch me, he said, smiling. His teeth were perfect. Only one missing molar. Everything else, new. I looked into his forest green eyes, and I did not die. The frayed beige chairs in the vacant lot waiting room became a flock of starlings rising in unison, then a throbbing immune system. The bleached blue hospital gown erupted a spray of tiny organza angels, teal-black mesh wings, fluttering.
Gordon Taylor is a queer emerging poet who walks an ever-swaying wire of technology and poetry. A 2022 Pushcart Prize nominee, his poems have appeared in Narrative, Malahat Review, Poet Lore, Arc, and more. He writes to invite people into a world they may not have seen.
