Solidarity in my pill box
Five meds each day
Should I test fate/ith again?
go from five to zero in one second flat?
go off the guard rail along the mountaintop I’ve climbed – not theirs, or yours –
the rock I was sold without purchase from my Mayrig and our bloody news-ed time.
A red tie recently reminded me mountain ranges are alive to create borders of man’s cognitive land
flood lights shine from the shore to steer the boats
with only one life
jacket made of quicksand cement
the toddler refuge-e lays face down, the moon pulled the tide away
a girl, wearing my favorite childhood dress, size 4T
green and white checkerboard, made from the tablecloth scraps
paper dolls holding hands around the margins of the skirt
It was the last dress she remembers loving, skirts leave little protection,
I am awfully dry for being dead in the water
I wake up from our dream, in solitary.
They offer me newspaper clippings to wipe my ass, but I refuse.
Humanity in the cell across the way has a pile of empty tempered headlines pilling outside their door.
I know I will meet them soon because the writing on their cell door reads “Tuesday.”
note: Mayrig is the Armenian word for mother
Photo by Dallas Reedy on Unsplash
Hokis | Poetry 