25 mg. of 50
Little blue pill, a bitter Tic Tac
(chalky, not so refreshing)
blocking neurotransmitters, signals in the brain, messengers
of control, regulating
electricity — buzz, buzzz, buzzzz–
whaling of arms,
thrusting of
voice, hitting of feet and
the stomping of hands
as if a toddler inhabited
this body.
Little bottle,
little label
little help.
Dispense as written: a 1/2 tablet by
mouth daily for depression—
Who’s depressed? I’m angry. Angry
at the world Angry
at the discrimination. Angry
at Milo Angry
at Jasmine Angry
at life Angry
at myself, but
most of all
Angry at
my Anger.
Swallowing this little blue
pill every morning,
sedating myself from
my anger, my sadness,
my authentic self– I’ll never learn
to live, to accept
who I’ve become and
what I’ve lost
and what I’ve gained.
…I take it anyway.
A grooved line separates the 50 mg.
into halves that’s big
enough for place-
ment of my thumbnail (the candy’s
smooth bottom caressed
by my index finger).
Snap!
It breaks into
halves.
ZOL rests way back on
my tongue, the muscle of
speech, the muscle of feast.
OFT rests on the
countertop next to the sink, next to my
toothpaste, next to my toothbrush
next to my tomorrow.
My tongue contracts backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards
no swallow, nothing.
My index finger pushes bitter candy further
back on my tongue,
activating a nonexistent gag reflex, while
water melts the pill–
I swallow
not as if I were
taking candy
from a baby—
not too close to the edge
she might fall;
not too close to the water,
she might drown
–leaving
skid marks inside
my esophagus,
a sedimentary
line burning in my throat
like burping pop through
your nose.
The sensation lingers
on my taste buds
like the aftertaste of
a tongue depressor.