Brian Turner -- Malaria

Brian Turner Reads Dreams from the Malaria Pills (Bosch) Forward Operating Base Anaconda, Iraq This time, it's 5 A.M. Lucid. Bosch can see his own hands lifting water to his face. Sees himself reflected in the mirror, an image of infinity, shaving his beard and neck, the blade silver and sharp under the fluorescent light, as he reaches back with the razor to scrape it over the smooth dome. of consciousness, that concentric heat peeling in strips like a rind of fruit, the skin of a peach, down the forehead and over eyebrows, cheek, and jaw, sloughing the blood and skin in sinkwater, repeating this, over and over again, his eyes focused, unfazed. Tonight, he lies in his bunk. The smoky moon cools its muzzle of light with a cloudy trail. Bosch soaks his forearms in lighter-fluid, flares a match head and sets his skin on fire. He repeats this to his thighs and calves He burns his chest like a savanna. By morning, even his head is on fire. as the sun rises up over the earth at dawn like the opened mouth of a flamethrower, 140 degrees.