Thousand: Three Hundred Forty-Eight

Too many organs act like everything’s their business. Last night, lying in bed, I imagined I knew the very next act of the guardians of the gate. We left the scene bloody and scummy with lymph. The heart had skipped a beat and was trying to catch up. The liver was working on a fifth of scotch, and in the lungs a sweet and oily smoke swirled from bronchiole to bronchiole. Deep in the marrow a new generation of whites was being born, preparing, no doubt, to battle the dread pathogens. I dipped into the transdimensional snuff box, a gift