ALEXIS POPE / DEAR VALIUM [I, II, III]
Dear Valium,
What is reined upon
Down my shirt an answer like
Some bread was freshly bagged
& I like a bag took it with me
My resume does not grow
My spirit, my corpse is closing in
It’s bagged & sold as
Day Old
Until I’m unreachable via email
I will not be very happy
Pre-packaged creamer, pre-packaged dawn
Hand soap makes life a bit simpler
On certain days I dream of new york
On most days I walk nowhere
And put a fork in my mouth
What do you deserve, tho
In this current state
I don’t give a shit about narrative
Anymore
Where goes the general use mugs
I throw one away instead of cleaning it
I hide it like a grown up
I am not standing down
River from anyone
Where the last party
Lasts for days
An office closes in upon
Someone takes me home
And I look so confused
Where are we I say
We are home they say
I eat a slice of bread
I chew it roughly
The window looks out at nothing
Dear Valium,
mostly the days transcend
the goop of the matter belongs
where we set the debris of the day
berries matted with turbinado sugar
children of varying ages descend
the staircase as the light tightens
around the room
prism refractions formalize
the space commanding
attention we are not deserved
(and yet)
we have much to celebrate or
this is not correct
heaven is aggrieved
with those who believe they must
confirm the actions
we yield to
readjust the applications
what does the stair do
after use
the light freckles
under the crescent moon
visible magnification
adjusting to the circulation
dusting the edges
of the plan
of which we have no map
Dear Valium,
a bag of mushrooms
something on hand
lessons of medicine
something about this working nature
blue jeans snug today
something where the body here
in its place expands
something about filling the space
without asking
something sweet and cold
on a spoon
something in the time it takes
to get from home to there
something about how they always
want to win
something that cannot be won
sunlit high today where
something in the sky appears to touch
tops of branches begin to bloom
something purpled in the healing
laughter in the next room
something misunderstood
exactly why the table broke
something about the weight of the bodies on top
which mouths were linked
something in the red fruit
which apples irritate my gums or
something about pollination
lessons on medicine
something off hand
without asking
something in the time it takes
on a spoon
something with red fruit
a linking of tongues
something misunderstood
the branches in their beginning bloom
something that cannot be won
gash of light tearing through my place
something about expansion
a want to win
something re: capitalism
from home to there
something i don’t actually own
a bag of mushrooms
something about pollination
which apples fill
something called space
or a palm
something in its weight
expressed on a cheek
something tight and sharp
the eyes after
somethings cannot be healed
Alexis Pope is a poet and writer currently living in Ohio. They are the author of the collections That Which Comes After and Soft Threat, along with various chapbooks and journal publications.