When my house is a pill organizer

Celeste Rose Wood

Featured image: Straight stair © A. Anupama 2017

When my house is a pill organizer
the rooms pop open at their tops. They cache configurations
of capsules,     buttons,   sequins,     tabs; selective
serotonin reuptake inhibitors in slip
cases, the silverware drawer; Latuda and rickrack
behind the couch; Ativan
                                          under the tongue
of the living room rug. Outside, bodies
flap against Braille-backed panes
like empty wigs. When my home is a canoe
of animal skin                        sewn shut over my head,
it only opens with a knife. Most of the time
I haven’t got one on me. At the boot heel,
where it leaks, that’s where the sirens
sinew in. “Get your belly down here
in this water,” sirens circle shark-like, sling
their lassoes out like frog tongues.                        “Float
your float face down.” Above, a sphincter
of hemmed skin puckers like a cactus gut, crumpled
bubblegum. On the other side, bodies
rasp against my lapsed porch light. When my home
is a sort of amniotic sac full
of liquid Ativan, inside I am a suspension of –
                         a suspension of –                     myself,           traffic,
barges,                     garbage,                     the     way     his     hair
fucks with the cont-     inuity of
     my breathing. Outside, space is so
vast it’s claustrophobic. Jellyfish pulse at the ends
of driveways, hungry dwarf stars. When my home is a box
of ten thousand self-injector shots for ten thousand
migraines, my bed bobs on shores of sumatriptan
like a cork. My eyes are gag glasses spirals. Outside, birds
have all flown backward, so time’s     frozen. I think
this week, I’ll start my pill organizer on a Thursday.