Depression

It is a weight that I carry

in a calabash pot on my head.

It seeps through my scalp, leaps soundlessly

between the synapses in my brain.

It creeps along the tunnel

of my spinal column, swims

in my very marrow.

It nibbles at me, at my fingertips and toes,

with small, sharp teeth.

If only I could keep it confined

to the calabash pot,

but it leaks out through cracks

too small for the world to see.

The Miner

He grew up on coal.

The black dust settled

over everything, he swam in it

in his mother’s womb.

He breathed it, it ran

In his blood.

He came from a long line

of coal-mining moles,

men who came home every night

coated with thick black dust

they could not wash off.

They ate coal, their intestines

and lungs were lined with it.

They choked on the coal,

they strangled on it and starved.

They were crushed beneath

its dark weight

and he was no different.

Right up until the day

he pointed the shot gun

at his head and pulled the trigger,

he was no different.

When Darkness Falls

When darkness falls they come,

slinking in after supper, sliding under beds

and pressing against the backs of closet doors.

They do not wait for the witching hour,

only for the shadows after sunset.

As I wash the dinner dishes I can see them

twining around the table legs, squatting in the pantry.

I can see them slither up the stairs as I go up

to give Jonathon his bath, and they wait

below his crib until he is safely tucked in.

They follow me to my room,

slip under the covers with me,

and worm their way into my dreams.

Black Dogs

They gathered ‘round me

while I was still in my mother’s womb,

waited there beside the delivery bed,

then tracked me down the hall

to the newborn nursery.

They grew with me,

they cut their teeth on my tender flesh.

They fell in love.

I’ll never shake them now.

Prozac in the Water

They should just put Prozac in the water supply,

you say, but I shake my head.

The water would be so bitter.

It would taste like the insides of mental institutions,

like Belleview, McLean,

like ECT and strait jackets and quiet rooms.

It would taste like walls painted hospital-green,

like paper slippers and gowns that open in the back.

Cold sheet packs and insulin shock and trans-orbital lobotomies.

The city couldn’t swallow it, I say.

Insanity

When you’re crazy

you get to tell the truth,

which is itself a blessing.

If you’re lucky,

you’re crazy enough

not to care or understand

when people tell you the truth,

which is an even better blessing.

Unfortunately, I have

only a mild case of insanity,

and I have seldom been blessed.