my amygdala
my amygdala, is
coquettish
I play
along with it
an expert at
theatrics
it
lives with an
undiagnosed
condition of
continual
poetic
discharge
my amygdala
responds well
to integrative
treatment
it
seeps active
lumbar fluids
into my days
colorless it
presents an
asymptomatic
condition
coming
and going at will
in moments most
unexpected, never
still, it is
unpredictable
in
the egg I fry
it imperfectly, and
the yolk seeps
into the white, a
bleeding stream
in
my eyes, its kohl
draining down my
cheeks
a
permanent mark
in my pores, as they
hold goose bumps
in some
poems
as they swim, swim, swim
into, and out of the
catheter as it hangs
from a tiny hole in my
brain
my amygdala
the doctor says needs
a purge, an extract of
its wasteland—
of words, draining itself
of the recurring spasms
of nouns, verbs, clauses
that clog its pathways
and that I utter in
stuttering accents
which shift like
quicksand
in my glorious
amygdala
Thresholds are subjective
I sit cross legged
in perpetual convalescence
knees to my chest, it helps contain
my riots, rattling teeth, pain
my parallel universes
in seismic shakings
not broken, nor consumed; yet
one a fading world
the other substantive —
my body, unlike yours is a gutted home
my etymology, unlike yours is an appendix
my sleep, unlike your dreams is chronic
my particles, unlike your cells are scattered
my darkness, unlike your night is tectonic
I creak, when I walk
I electrocute, with my hurt
I erase, each day
after I certify myself
for my pain threshold
Submission
Take me, write me, into
a sky that swallows
an empty tree, nests slumbering
into branches, pining for cordial
absences, leaves shedding an
ample orange
Feel me, write me, into
strokes of an artist’s sketch
edges crawling out, of frames
into a palette of bleeding veins
Sense me, write me, into
a woman with flour covered
hands, spilling herself into batter
a masterpiece baked with
immaculate sloppiness
Hold me, write me, into
flames of ambrosial passion
consuming morrow, bones of bones
borrowing fingerprints, fingers of fingers
Sing me, write me, into
atonement of an eager morning
barefoot as it lights a crescendo
of temple bells, the waning sky
witness to defiant murmurations
of a thousand birds
