Pre­scrip­tions Af­ter Emer­gency

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - MARIKA PROKOSH

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.

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