The only poem I wrote last year.

Sonnet X: Soup & Beauty

The lack of Ativan hits like blood clot,
climbs from gut to skull with dizzying speed.
I curl up on the break room floor: "I've got
to go," I whimper. Once again, the needs
of my most hated qualities win out.
Rebekah sends me home. Then, on the stairs,
I near-collide with Josh, all lovely mouth,
wide eyes, faded shirt, calculated hair--
and halfway to my car, I stagger back.
Aesthetics will trump illness every time.
I sip tomato bisque, and the attack
subsides; soon, by bowl's end, I feel just fine.
I say the soup restores me, but there's more:
Beauty, oblivious, sweeping the floor.

[April 2, 2008]