She said it was toxic —
a lonely brew,
poison and the unreal,
unbound and in danger
from the upward current —
and already I owe
such a debt of days.

There is
no amount of blood
can save me
from myself.
Bottle it
and put it in a box —
with all I can’t discard.
Add it to
everything dropped
all along the way.

How we make do
with this diminishing
is a mystery —
an erosion
that carries away
but reveals
layered remnants,
four decades’ worth.

Today I want
neither her words
nor her bitter medicines.
We operate
without a diagnosis —
feel the feeling
then cut it loose.
Send it off
with those bottles
of blood.

When the sun comes back
it will burn off
what’s amiss.
And you and I,
we can ride out
all intermittent darkness.
Like these days,
like these dreams,
it will pass.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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