Merciel

I had a headache, so I grabbed a bottle of Tylenol.
The instructions suggested two pills, but my head
really hurt so I grabbed a few more—I took forty,
but I still couldn’t sleep. They fell out my mouth
before they could work. The doctors smoldered
me with charcoal, threatened me with catheters.
Three days I lay undead in a hospital bed,
wondering why I even tried. I wanted life
outside of dreams in which I couldn’t move or speak
and thought I’d wake up if I pinched hard enough.

Comparisons to the incontinent in convalescence
convinced me to give life another try. I could walk,
talk, think, dream. I just couldn’t speak, but maybe
I’d find my voice if I continued the effort.
Prozac, Paxil, Wellbutrin never helped; surely Zoloft would!
I left that hospital with newfound appreciation for life,
ready to write, make new friends, find true love.
All I had needed was a more positive attitude spiced
with courage to sweeten my dull days, and I finally found it!

Three days later, I lost it, but I couldn’t try again.
Plan B already failed, and I couldn’t experiment.
I was just a teenager without a car, without a gun,
afraid of the world, afraid of trains, afraid of razor blades.
That summer of ninety-nine, I gave up on death
and spent the rest of my time in bed listening
to my thoughts as the Cure sedated me.

Their home kept out the rain, but nothing else
waited at the door. Broken windows
invited typhoons in; furniture fell
off tables and nightstands and dressers
when breezes passed by. They could not escape
the winter’s chill or summer’s blaze in rooms
without insulation or electricity.
Only the roof remained intact. It hid
the sun that lit each day and stars
decorated stained off-white walls,
but at least it kept out the rain as well.

The door had no lock, but thieves paid no mind
to enter a shack that lacked such basic needs
as refrigeration and indoor plumbing.
Such a man would do better to dig through
the sands of the beach that lay footsteps away.
It tapers into waters extending
to horizons aglow with purple tinge.
Emerald islands in the distance tempt
swimmers into cool waters toward greener pastures
than could be found at insulated homes,
but no amount of money could own such a sight
unless one spent millions for the property.

The morning after brings new life
where little deaths once infested.
It tastes like copper, but appreciates
with time. The dormant egg has hatched;
the seed takes residence inside. It sprouts
new limbs as soft as gold, untouched
by airs possessed by smog, but clean inside
a room where only self exists.
New senses grow and swallow the world
in samples blended together
to make a stew of life to live
when stems sprout bones and flesh.
When walls no longer accommodate
the seed matured into new creation,
the child tears through the wrapping into light
and enters solid life.

I abandoned the fellowship
mid-prayer to swing in the snow.
Amidst the worship, the flock noticed
nobody missing from the fold.
I belonged to Kathryn, not Jesus.
She enveloped the whole playground:
her white snow juxtaposed against my brown skin,
her evening breeze cooling my sweat, kissing my neck,
her whisper heard between their plays,
her sapphire stars watching me from above, lighting the way
where no streetlights or city fog came.

I feared no man, no bear. Raccoons
scavenged through dumpsters eating leftovers.
I ate the manna falling from the night.
Every soul asleep in bed but mine
as I swung on rusted chains into the sky
contemplating whether angels really died
or if they just flew to places beyond
my grasp to kingdoms I would never see
though I would try despite my meager reach.
I had no wings, but I could fly
closer to her on the icy metal swing.

Their glances connect, turning sparks
into thunder. A blinding flash
of binding eyes ends with a flinch.
He doesn’t see her when he looks
again. Lightning never strikes twice,
but thunderstorms never subside.
Even as Skillet plays their set,
his basest desire swallows up
the bass and treble, wooing crowds,
too loud for rock concerts to snuff.
The trophy pawn he brought along
gets lost with other faces. Fair
attractions aren’t so attractive
when the manure air reminds him
what he has left after she’s gone:
a wisp of fragrance rubbed on him,
a scrapbook with precious moments.
She stands in the crowd. He knows it,
but after every song, the chance
to find her shrinks. The chance to be
with her gets lost in other dreams.