Lauren Scharhag writes

Migraine

Whatever else we think we are, we are nothing

in the face of pain: an abject heap of cells and neurons,

quaking in the plush red dark of our innards.

I can sense it the way animals sense

coming disaster. The blood vessel rebellion,

gathering clusters in my shoulders, my neck,

gearing up for the attack.

All at once, light blasts me. My eyelids droop,

trying to shut it out. All sound becomes

a primordial drum, beating time with the beat

of the dots in my vision. Odors prostrate me,

gagging on their persistence. The senses press me

to surrender, and once again,

I am captured. Off to the hospital I go.

Morphine, morphine

Unconsciousness is my refuge. I seize it

the way the righteous seize relics,

unperturbed by its power. I seize it

and bail on my body.

I simulate death like Juliet, regretting,

as she no doubt came to regret.

We cannot be more than what we are.

This stupor offers no touch of angels,

no talk of deeds, rewards

or remorse.

 

 Morphine -- Michael Hussar