im on drugs all the time,
call it
the
“page of cups”
this next section is called: grief.
______________________________________________________
sit down prepared.
as in, I am not shaking
and I have no plans to hurt
myself.
“what brings you into the
emergency room today?”
I planted nightshade
in the community garden.
maybe it’s the click of the heels that drives me. how I know my hips match the clack of the faux leather five inch calf high boots. the process. the metronomy. it’s the walk. the noise cancelling pads on my ears. the rhythm that I begin to step into as I turn my headphones up.
as I begin to turn the corner, he turns the corner. and it’s the crescendo. the drums. it’s a little bit of psilocybin and edible. it’s a long time coming. something about trauma and the terms thrust upon me. arithmomaniac. neurodivergent. special. little bit of timing. I turn my headphones up. he’s ten feet in front of me and I am a slow
beating
saunter
behind
and very special.
“the woman who followed the men”
your house was yellow.
my house was blue and
a ten by ten box;
me trapped,
torn between watching them
pack up their stuff
from their own pact to self,
their own inculpability,
fragile glass faces
slightly cracked and me,
stunned,dripping a
flattening virulence,
telling them about themselves,
breaking and then
pushing them out.
I really miss your hands on me.
the way you held me in
sullen incubation.
I remember the oldest incantation:
the thrust I was given,
some gleaned anticipatory luck:
God gave you a chance and
an unfinished smile.
we needed a spark.
I grin full tooth to show you
my new porcelain canines.
now the frame is melting
and so am I
in the cradle of tar black trees,
I fight the urge to bow
and suddenly tiptoe
all around you;
two inches taller than you remember
and my tongue hits your neck
like a quill.
hold your breath,
I say and
baby,
I’m a smokeshow, they say.
wait
for some other current to take me.
bite your skin.
let the tips of my
fingers dig in and
there are no exits.
“chrysalis”
sharp glances.
deep in her wrinkles when
passing windows.
can’t seem to
thwart her own self persecution
and it shows in voluble shivers;
affirmations she mumbles as
she grabs the cuffs from
the table..
told me to sit down on the bed.
told me to lay face down on the bed.
told me to put my hands behind my
back. told me to
consent and
said she liked hearing stop,
the thud of impact,
prattling remorse
and doing things
slowly,
in pieces.
with repetition.
“how guys save me in their phone #11”
I plan to spend the year
fat; armored,
replete in web
and feast.
“Arachne”
I am practicing the arch of my eyebrow and black lipstick, smooth, without proper training which can be messy. both of these places on my face need work and today, I take the angled brush and dip into the brown powder. small amount. take the q-tip because I always need it. find an aristocratic line. take the Carmex. make it smooth. take the tube. smile. suck my finger. (remember you). see a black ring. take the rag and wipe it. purse my lips. my cheekbones are a subtle brown called darling and everything else about me is real southern.
“hello,” I practice.
my dress is collared white but everything else black–boots, stockings, gloves, hood. it’s tepid out. I don’t need any real or mock wool. everyone is out and that makes this easier. I am volcanic.
“hello,” I say to a little girl dressed like a princess.
brush her father’s arm. don’t turn around. you already know.
“halloween”
first. i took the mushroom.
then i took the edible
then i took the skullcap.
then i took the mugwort.
then the house started to vibrate
and the voices began. the lurching
of the stomach, the interminable
wave pool, and with such
stupor.
then I met Mike.
so your own magic potion worked
against you?
“Mike”
the second time a man on the street
gave me his inhaler which caused an adrenaline
rush which caused my legs to move uncontrollably,
violently, but first, I was kettled by a swat team.
no, first a tank threw tear gas at me.
no, first a cop stood on the neck of George Floyd
and pressed hard and broadcast his malice
for the world.
and then I felt the floor
fall out of my living room,
crawled to the front door
until I got to the corner
where a man gave me his inhaler
and called 911.
then I met Carey.
“Carey”
first, i choked on a cherry pit.
no, first I wrote a short story
about a woman grinding up cherry seeds
to make cyanide, then I choked on
a cherry pit.
then I called 911.
then I saw a man with blue eyes
lead me into the truck.
Tom.
I’m in a stupor which slowly
becomes a comfortable stasis of mine.
care and comfort. ten minute ride
of care and comfort.
then I took a pregnancy test.
then I sobbed.
then I saw the psychiatrist.
then I talked for one whole hour
in heaves of cry.
never tell them anything.
but I begin to tell them everything.
he hands me a piece of paper with
a psychiatrist who doesn’t take my insurance.
i walk home alone in short shorts
in the rain, confused.
never tell them anything.
“Tom”
daturamoon.com 