Living from pill to pill,
from insurance,
what doesn’t kill me only
makes me poor.
Pain is not physical or
emotion,
but mental from a lacking
memory.
Waiting for more medicine
takes a while,
makes me more sick, causes my
brain to break.
Screams alert the start of a
fit to come,
then it kicks in and is over
shortly.
I am told of the frightening
event,
over and over again
countlessly.
An hour later, my mind is
awake,
matching the consciousness of
my body.
Then it is time to panic and
to sob.
At least they stopped calling
an ambulance
like they would have news to
tell me about.
The first time it happened, I
woke in one.
I still have night mares
about it today.
The EMT asked of my
allergies.
I said, “I’m allergic to
strawberries.”
In the hospital, I remained
out,
my brain only half way awake
in there.
My mom walked in and cried
when she saw me.
I can’t recall another time
like that,
when it was that blissful to
see someone.
I know I am lucky to have
that mom
and it sucks that a lot of
people don’t
Because some people have
dumb, drug-filled lives
that are from a lack of some
affection.
I am glad my meds are for a
disease.
I would rather have that kind
of problem.
__________________________________________________________________
Meds by Cynthia Huntington
Living from pill to pill,
from bed to couch,
what doesn’t kill me only
makes me dizzy.
Pain dissolves like chalk in
water,
grit on the bottom of the
glass.
Waiting takes forever,
throbs to the soles of my
feet, Bella noche . . .
Hives as large as mice hump
up under my skin
(“no more barbiturates for
you, Cynthia!”)
—itch, stretch, I don’t fit
my flesh—
sting, tingle, prick, the
sorcerer’s threat.
There’s a knife stabbed
through my left eye.
My right foot is made of
elephant hide
and weighs in at roughly one
cartload of potatoes.
Oxygen twenty-four hours; I’m
swelled with steroids,
prednisone buzz in the brain;
a motel room
with sixteen foreign workers
sleeping in shifts,
playing reggae at three a.m.
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