The Colors of an Abnormal Brain
jackhammer my chest at the
sight of white paper.
Green pills free me
to be the wife and mother,
but keep me up at
night. I need a new color.
Now I sleep, without nightmares.
White capsules chase them
off until garish morning comes.
Oval, pink tablets
lock my fears in a glass safe
to be seen, not felt.
I take the light blues with red
hands, cracked from washing,
to halt rituals, rituals, rituals-
to halt rituals.
Such death is little more than passion realized.
Two conduits, one searching, one waiting,
are hurled together by mindless imperative.
Like Origen’s bird, ending, living embers,
they create anew.
So does cruel tradition, born from accident,
chain matter to form.
Form quickens to understanding.
Justifications of divine mandate and humanism
are two blind helmsmen guiding paper ships.
The primordial covenant of flesh is kept.
We engage in this perpetuation of possibility,
yearning to kill our bodies and our self
to create self; a memesis less and more.
This biological metronome, corporeal alchemy,
is the steady keeper of man’s time.
The voice over CB radio, taking a rain check from someone’s husband;
It’s that time of the month.
The handwriting on backdated child support checks.
Call me mom.
The girl touched by her future husband at 12 years old.
It was consensual.
The eager nod when a man tells everyone he just can’t get rid of her.
Surely, he’s joking.
The awkward laugh when she says his other son is her favorite.
Old people say things.
I am all things save for whoever it is I am.