Diagnosis Guinaiya by Michael Lujan Bevacqua
I flip through the untouched yellowed pages of a phonebook
where photographs of smirking physicians remind me that there is no cure for
what I feel.
Symptom 1, the itching, restless dancing of fingers hovering
above a keyboard, agonizing over an email to you. When I glance away, they
audaciously type, “tÃ¥ya’ Ã¥mot para guinaiya.”
I spend sleep-starved nights tabbing page after virtual page
from malware infected medical sites, each of which is sponsored by the fact that
there is no cure for what I am feeling right now.
Symptom 2, my poor eye, crooked and scratched, sprained in
its socket from straining to watch you from afar. As my eyes fail in
frustration, the normally invisible detritus of the world’s afterglow mimes the
plot of the most recent installment of my life, “TÃ¥ya’ Ã¥mot para guinaiya”
I Whatsapp friends and foes photos of my symptom-sick form,
hoping for some positive prognosis, but each autocorrected response reminds me
that t…