left in a twelve ounce glass of liquid. I had
not considered grinding pills, instead
of, risk by risk, swallowing them into numb
intelligence deciding for me moments ago
this was a good idea. Inspired, I carry
the handful of years to the basement, hunt for a pestle;
I have a mortar, the bowl, smallest, nesting
three cold dependable stone, pour-spout
soft around the lip. Not finding a pestle,
I choose a rock, cold and smooth enough
for grinding pills, years into powder that will
be swallowed easily, I know, pompous ways,
knowing to depend upon the prior numb
intellect assuring me this is a good act,
a motion improved upon other less stable
tries. Not too much risk, I think, steady
grinding pills like chemists of another time,
proud, so like my other self watching
disbelieving she will be so satisfied
with new ways, smoother grains, slipping
through her diet pepsi. Swirling by hand
the glass entire, she mixes all her month's
supply like pollen falls in a day, murky
sneezing pain away, and finally sips.
Drawing in two gulps, and leaving the other
half in the glass, she waits. i saw her lie
down, felt her become me again, less
numb to the earlier intelligence sobbing over
insipid thought: that sob would end before
fearful sanity leads me to call my mother,
speak generally of my destructive patterns;
"What have you done?" she said. And I, feeling
change immediately, speak clear as Regret is able;
assessing general words, ask, will she
support my overcoming this wrecking ball that turns
one off so another will attempt to logically unplug
the air in me, this air in me, that is.