Still Ill
Mar 16, 2020
In police school, I was told, trainees
must be shot with the white-hot
tongue of a taser, just to taste it;
every muscle consumed
by electric teeth, only to be spit back out whole.
Momentary madness:
exorcism of the soul — which is to say, medicinal.
A far cry from the crater in my brain
that you left like a comet-tailed stroke.
Grief is hot and burns slow.
I eat my dinner that tastes like my day
to chew my sadness and swallow,
and try to catch fire tomorrow.
