First (Unmoored)

Standard



Much better, she said,

Everything is on an upswing.

I feel almost normal,

Whatever that means.

It had gotten to the point

Where it felt like my body

Was just splitting apart.

My limbs felt like they might

Float away,

So I dropped anchor

While there was something 

Remaining.

Tethered myself to the wood 

Of the first sturdy dock.

I was still on surging water

But moored in a cove of

Love and promise

While oceans of existences

Flooded beneath the floor boards.

He’s an attorney

Who writes music

For big-shots in Nashville.

He usually brings the beer.

“I mean, when you have troops

Of people walking around 

Losing their religions

In hollowed out cores” she said.

But he wasn’t paying attention,

So she dug out 

The McCormick spice container

She’d hidden on her closet shelf.

A home for two, thick Blue Dream  joints,

A gift from her friends in Colorado.

Lit one, she sucked in smoke, potent and potion,

Breathed in blue dreams, streams and steaming

Lassitudes, masses, boxes and volumes, and air,

Assumed forms of light.

And her eyelids drooped

And her breathing slowed.

She was having none of that.

March 2015

Exquisite Corpse Poem

Zombie  Salon members: Andrew, Anne, Julie, Tricia

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