Terri Brown-Davidson

I’d love to taste my meds with great delectability,
the PremPhase, the Prozac,
though I’m instructed to bolt all four pills
down my esophagus
to block the mood-swings my particular age appears heir to,
I the slim young girl of yore
who longed only for logos, for control
as she sharpened her pencils with an assiduousness that amazes me,
I the ankle-crossed maiden in fluttering cotton dresses
who’d compose pantoums in the English Department john
on a pen-poked, mustard-colored couch
that leaked stuffing mounds large as human heads,
the Immersed-in-Poetic-Rapture Virgin I was then
never attending the young girls wafting giggling
toward the scummy sinks and away
while I kept scribbling till my hand smeared black with ink,
awaiting each revelation
that would interlock a sharded world, make it ignite and flicker and shine
while the young girls, chattering, tugged hair-mattes from Goody brushes
and I dreamed of a poetic greatness
pharmacopoeia can never extinguish

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