Swallow them,

wash them down with saline,

cock your head back,

and resist your instinctual urge to spit them out.

Feel them s

                   l

                     i

                       d

                         e down your sore

clenched throat,

because you are ill :

“Imbalanced” they tell you

 

They are healing beans,

said to bloom.

Imagine them swelling,

r   e a  c h i  n g,

wrapping around your cerebral scale,

and balancing your ailing half with a golden egg.

 

All you feel is the giant

Compressing you with his bouldering palms

Interlocking his brawny fingers around your neck

 

Pray that he won’t notice

Pray he shrinks