A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
When the nausea descends
I forget the sunset,
her light listing its way
west, the skeins of fuchsia
falling slowly to her knees—
And then, like a lightning bolt—
first out of fear and abrupt-fused with dread—
stabs of pain, pangs of panic, intrude,
even collude to knife my head.
Before I know, I’m trapped.
Heaving shadows blacken my mind,
mist all grass underfoot, and drench
me in fields with desolate dark—
though quickly a Towhee trill
might quaver me awake,
rustle my blighted brain,
even grab its bilious gaze
to catch silken embers of sun
as they topaz the sky.
Copyright 2018 Judith Brice.