Brain Food

A host of bluebirds coax the pale sun out

of bed, with shrill songs of desperation. 

I close the blinds and pour my beggar’s feast

of sour milk and soggy cereal.

I fix a second bowl and wait while my

bland breakfast rapidly disintegrates.


Meanwhile, a hunger of a different kind

is gnawing at my bones and clogging up

my arteries, and grinding at my teeth. 


 My thoughts are slowly slipping straight into

obscurity—need brain food for brain fog—

and words that once rained down to give me life

now fall into the gutter, down the drain.


This sadness is contractual, I signed

my right to smile off to prescription drugs:

first Lexapro, then Zoloft and Xanax.


I am a cannibal, brain food, brain fog;

I stir my thoughts and feelings into mush.


The doorbell rings; in comes my routine friend

to eat what’s left of my sobriety.

We laugh; I entertain thoughts of death like

the gracious host I am. I invited

the insecurities and fed them well.