Prescriptions After Emergency
Can’t prickles bitter as a half-disintegrated tablet on my tongue, aches in the sutures of my skull like a crying headache.
I have grown into a person who attempts less, imagining medical emergencies in foreign languages for every solo journey, an angry manager for every unseen customer attempting eye contact. All I want are my books, to walk unaided through the city streets, to move my body joyfully in and out of uttanasana without my heart pressing its bloody thumb into my optic nerve, and conjuring corneal mist, emergency doctor’s visits. Another can’t for my list, below scuba diving and contact sports. The unwritten list: no reading chalkboard specials menus or inversions now join no catching a beautiful stranger’s eye across the room, no bicycles in traffic, no quitting
jobs with benefits. No resting easy that my body won’t falter before my youth does, that I won’t catch an inadvertent finger in an unseen gear or wheel, lose a knuckle, bring the whole essential scaffolding to my shaking knees.