By the fistful, licorice-black, Georgia clay-red,
cheddar-yellow pills pressed into my palm.
A doctor wrote the scrip. Remedy for doughy arms,
belly, thighs. Shiva swallowing forest fires.
Wide awake for three consecutive sunrises, scribbling
in a spiral notebook indecipherable inky knots.
Even the teenage poems perspire through their clothes.
I eat only flavored lip gloss. This is before
college and weed, before speed freak.
Before White Cross composed a term paper
overnight. Teetering on platform shoes,
dazed, doll-size, I spread my bramble of hair
across the ironing board, press one hank at a time,
iron hissing, singed, smelling faintly of smoke,
chrysanthemums at my feet.
