Call it migraine mother. Call it something fierce.
I spoke with Death once & she ripped Plague through
my skull. Hollowness danced a waltz on my frontal
lobe like those girls in Strasbourg in 1518.
She tasted like the sensation of carrying an
ember between your teeth & learning
how to spit bruised fire; blue & black.
In other words, she tasted like bitterness tempered
with a sick sort of delight in familiarity. Pain is a circlet
of drums around the temples; a breach of holiness.
Call it a legacy of illness. Call it bloodlust.
If you’ve been in the air long enough,
you’ll start to wonder if the ground is real.
I’m a sky shark, can’t stop moving.
I skipped one pill & bled for three weeks straight.
No children, but on my walk home during crow-dusk,
the graveyard treetops blazed alight with wings. Children of
a thousand high school fantasies spoke madly
into the sky. Maybe at some point you should stop
taking them. Maybe at some point you should stop.