Feb 10, 2015

My Anti-Psychotic Has a Class Action Lawsuit Against It

Written by Benjamin Goldberg

Read by Tory Adkisson

The capsules made adipose cells go rogue.
Side effect: stones. The slow work of pebbles inside a chest
piling to a peak high enough
for hindsight to pantomime shouts from.
Ten years turned boys into men, and men’s ribs
into mountain ranges. I, too, remember the tablets handed to us
well enough to translate my breath into commandments,
to lick the wind with a tongue made of latexed fingertips
on which clouds and gauze taste the same.
Even if a madman’s body’s native hormone is rain,
he must ready any seeds sown within him
for brushfires and at least a decade
of canyon dust. But I come from a tribe of boys
out of whom the moon refused to pull tides.
To keep from drowning in our mouths, we only needed
to lower our faces into the sea which looked least like a mirror
and breathe. I never believed I was of the Earth
even after my body grew to resemble it,
that the brain of someone who believes stones can be rewritten
is a glacier, sentience another way of melting.
I don’t believe in a chemical recipe for sleep
even as I discover the groves of my own body
don’t wake me.

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