the office.

she detested the maneuvering and sidestepping that always accompanied
the crossing over the threshold, over into that place that stymied all the thrashings
of her elegantly violent soul. she was a satellite–she sat in the middle of the room
surrounded by glass walls and, when appropriate, pulled out clots of her blood
and tossed them into the wastebasket. no one saw her. but they watched her all
the time.

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pills

i.
these pills are virgin blue and cleanse my mind
of thought until i am a blank canvas but not meant
for paint or ink. hang me in a museum somewhere
under glass, titled: effacement.

ii.
i think (when i can think) that i might one day
go again to the lighted room with the buddha statues
and the plants, the brocade the on decorative hutch,
that heaven must be a psychotherapist’s office.

iii.
he reassures me that he never fucks his wife
and i swallow this as some sour pill, or else
let it dissolve like aspirin under the tongue.
but the throbbing in my temples doesn’t go away.

iv.
some days my head is a refrigerator. the grapes
wrinkled and the avocados turning pasty. some days
i remember that i can’t remember, and then every-
thing is okay, just before it softens and blurs out.