Zoloft
by Christy Cottle


week one
Eyecrossed awakening, bloated about the mouth.
Cold. Chocolate. Dizzy nap emergencies, prowling thoughts.
A long walk sought.
Books don't have commercials, why are there jingles
in my head.

week two
Milligrams. I know I took it
I remember breaking it in half.
Fifteen 100s cost half thirty 50s.
Was that yesterday?
I saw it darting in the cabinet.
I know it was yesterday because of the sullen rain in its claws.

week three
I may grin; I can
walk through ghosts. Dosage doubled,
I hum while driving in the rain. Evil far away.
Among hard scribbles and hard thoughts of last summer, I am fine.
Thankgiving brings memories down;
raisin memories this year, like in a raisin muffin.

week four
"If any males call, I am not here."
"I am not here for males."

week five
On the phone with Eric in Ft. Gordon,
we take turns apologizing for going to the beach together.
I cannot wait for it to be okay.
"I can take it." My best ambiguous phrase.
How was your holiday? A man who listens!
As fearfully rare as a boat made of basketballs.

week six
I have a chair from which magic can be noticed.
I lope toward it more often,
bearing a face to look out from,
surprise.







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