by Carole Mertz

The migraine drilled through my head
like a mountain rilled with crevices
yet uncrossed and dangerous in their reaches.

Even though I cater to them,
caffeine-drunk, and swift as a whippet on a race,
still I trace the jagged lines looking for respite,

hoping the ridges succumb to softer lines
and, aquarelled, become a gentler composition,
all the stresses and sharp edges rubbed away,

rendered harmless and hurled into the bay
of the brume left behind, better the anxious angles
scarified out of my skin by a kinder hand.


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