‘THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES’, ‘MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS’, ‘EMPTY YOUR MIND’, ‘FALLOUT’ & ‘DAZED’
Photographer - Beth Cole
THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES
The nurse asked:
“Are you crying from the pain?” in distress,
I blurted out:
“NO!”
Public Service Announcement:
I’d rather be “fucking and flying”
instead of in the Emergency Room
waiting for the
cure of dehydration; an IV. Listened
to an elderly pair play the Alphabet Game;
their chosen theme the weather while
Lil Nas X was playing for all ears to hear,
in the hospital’s speaker. (Maybe who decided
this music was either bored or horny.) Those
two with gray hair got to the letter “G” and gave up.
“I’m not an athlete, but a poet”, I proudly
declared as a nurse was putting in the IV
equipment in my arm (at least she was amused)
even though I was wearing my trusty
blue basketball shorts—that I also wore to bed;
maybe I seemed like a walking contradiction.
There was no clock on the wall, and
no one there, but only the intervals
on the bag to gauge the passing time
was that fluid going downwards.
MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS
Take 1
These fragmented thoughts are cracked dead sand dollars washed up past the shoreline littering here and there whereas this destructive force beckoned me as that aged lighthouse was falling into the sea
b
r
i
c
k
by
b
r
i
c
k
I wanted to cut my left-forearm shallowly to see red emerge. A minute crimson tide, a strawberry stained white pillow case, but I didn’t believe in ghosts or the Holy Ghost. A fancy quilted paper towel would be needed to press down on this cut leaving bead-lets (then scars) like a crushed strawberry’s guts or a strawberry melting under the too hot sun. (Son, he said. He didn’t say daughter.) I wanted my nightmares to vanish like footprints in the sand at high tide, and instead to find peace when the self—can I even claim is mine? was in pieces.)
Take 2
Spectacular. Suffering. Fireworks. Red. Like how I envisioned streaks across my skin from my fingernails scratching the surface. It was 3:36 am. I checked my Iphone, I was crying for at least 10 minutes straight. Someone might have heard me even though I tried to cry silently—thought I heard someone shut their window. This was just not working.
However, the slight cool breeze for a moment briefly brought me back to the then now tickled my feet broke this too high body heat. A way out of the downwards spiral for a moment realizing: my mini air purifier was still going, my AirPods in my ears were still playing, my portable bedside lamp was plugged in signaled charging by that red light. Coincidentally, I also listened to a song that shuffled titled: “3 am”.
I wondered if I was in the perfect position that many would want to trade places with me. Inside the future felt bleak so I turned the other cheek, and presented one way to the world even though life isn’t a one way street.
Final Cut
I wished this wretched urge was out of my head every night
as to not to keep me up.
“EMPTY YOUR MIND”
as the body cried out for warmth as
murky memories clouded thoughts like
fog rolling in precipitation of sweat and
predicting the nights short comings; falls.
The animalistic urge to just do it, to see red
or burst with spasms of euphoria instead or
to be stuck and terrifyingly hope to fall asleep
due to meds but peace does not come nor arrive.
As fatigue is a dweller whereas energy has been
allusive as if some had shot the energizer bunny.
The power shuts off now and then here and the reason
is not clear, clearly my mind is full and my subconscious.
Nightmare emerge fierce as cheetahs, though I’m
not a cheater or cheat the system yet still this
mind withstands the test of time.
FALLOUT
Stars falling out of my eyes
don’t ask me why falling
shooting flames disintegrating
into remnants—little pile of
ashes on the white carpet.
DAZED
Sheer mechanical red light unusually bright
against the soft blue sky; I had to look up.
At the corner of Sunset Way, waiting to cross,
I cannot tell you why I decided to basically
walk in a straight line on weary legs for two
miles one way, and back. For all I know, in that
time that red could have spun out, and birthed
psychedelic roses outside the metallic edges
confines of the bulb; spinning like when you
look at the sun for too long (told you so).
Sophia Falco is an award-winning poet, and the author of four poetry books all published by UnCollected Press titles: If My Hands Were Birds: A Poem, Chronicles of Cosmic Chaos: In The Fourth Dimension, Farewell Clay Dove, & The Immortal Sunflower. She graduated magna cum laude along with the highest honors in the Literature Department at The University of California, Santa Cruz with her BA in intensive literature with a creative writing concentration in poetry. https://www.sophiafalco.com/
