Post-liberation Relapse(s)
A whirring drill woke me up this morning,
spitting crumbling bits of dry wall from my
left temple.
Twisting
Twisting so tight
that it’s fingers turn blue
and the bony knuckles protrude
and the metacarpals bulge through the skin,
pitching tents along the backside
of the drill’s hand.
And when you think it’s done tightening,
It grabs its wrench and twists some more.
Again, I find myself in the warehouse
Buying Plaster of Paris.
Again, I find myself in a modest blouse
As to not be embarrassed.
With the approaching darkness and collecting dust,
I pain-stakenly pack with plaster
the hole in my left temple,
and tuck myself into bed early,
For I am to be woken at dawn
By a whirring drill.
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