if pharma babes put me on lithium
will Elon Musk try to mine my head
gradual steps up on the stabilizer
have the option for a little salt
reacted from a rare earth metal
powering the phone i text my
psychiatrist weekly updates on
one-on-one blog posts versus
conversation, it’s become too
high-risk having the option on
standby to level out random
moody Tuesdays and olympic
Saturday feats of energy all for
the same Thursday fatigue & if
it bleeds into Friday that’s when
i call it a bad week; neon has
nothing on me breathing in
balloon helium to glow glow
glow; lithium-lifted so they
can’t call my smile bullshit &
say i’m doing nothing with
pills a better patient would
be more deserving
crazy person asking
pharmacists over the phone
if they can compound
lamotrigine into a
sweet-tasting treat
an eight-year-old who cries
instead of laughing when
listening to lollipop by the Chordettes
doesn’t need the dusty pacifier he
needs life to taste like sugar
instead of lead
Reality
-After “My Mother’s Lungs” by Victoria Chang
you were more beautiful than i
thought a human could be, never mind
to a bystander it would be immensely sad
that there wasn’t a second floor above us
& it didn’t have a school that taught
deaf children to sing, i believe they
did come to visit you with light in
their eyes, i believe they comforted
you. i asked if you liked the food
you pursed your lips in disgust &
said it was just okay, how pertinent
a meal it was, lasagne when i got
my Italian from you, even then you
were my grandmother, thinner than
i had ever seen, bruises up your arms
worse than you looked over video calls
in singular lucid moments when you
just wanted to say hello. we weren’t in
danger when the garage door opened
below the living room years before
ruined states sat relying on tubes to
breathe. you relaxed & breathed after
loudly exclaiming worry for us kids
when the garage door scared you.
long visiting hours trying not to cry
in the home as you, Noni held my hand &
i had to tune out all the doom to focus on the
warm life i mourn daily. Ginny, you were my last
grandmother who i loved in every moment
biscotti once-baked with anisette so i wouldn’t
crack a tooth. reality was clay we made from
raw dirt to feel happy & grateful for simple presence
as the pain of gradual death before bambi eyes set in
held “i’m gay” tensely braced behind my teeth thinking i wouldn’t let
another childhood pillar go not knowing yet i never said it as the air
took you to a new home & the one within me grew still & cold with apathy
i hear the ventilator’s hiss, the click in, the click out when i wake up at three
hiss click whoosh hiss click whoosh hiss click w-
hite noise drifting above static severed from any tangible TV; little moments
of late night terror always pale in comparison to
the absence of your smile in that little wooden box of ashes.
who do the bumbles sing for?
silently said goodbye to my favorite sweater
cast its pale cream knit fibers in the trash can
a random corporation put too much effort into
making its slender plastic walls look like ivory
always thought it was ugly; condemning every
object to receive the utmost hate from me
can’t you stop it?
you’re a comet constantly hurtling always edging
without impact
calling himself a star in a bar with two months
left before foreclosure
met you on a chance right turn off the stitched
sides of I-95
said you were a spirit-healer said you were a spirit
burnt holes in my favorite cardigan
burned the corners of your mouth though you
blamed it on the rogue corner of a corn chip
knew it was the calling card of acid spit; we kissed
‘n it tasted acerbic, horrendous, you ruined the walls
of my home breathing in your sleep
poisoned humidity stained the sheets green not
mint how i like, more a micro-dose radioactive
lime that creeps up on your liver without sound
silently said goodbye to a winner whose trophies
materialize only when his eyes close
walked past the meadow gallery of bee-favorites
before your shift ended
stunned by the silence the absence of celebration
knew they were scared of colony collapse you
always scoffed at mass-death of apiary society
said they were just “damn bugs”
spoken like
a damn man
who burned holes in my fuckin favorite cardigan
Author’s Biography
Thomas Jackson is currently a Senior at North Carolina State University in the United States. Thomas self-published a poetry collection centered on his experiences with suicidal thoughts and nature titled "growth" through Amazon when he was seventeen years old. In February 2020 he delivered a spoken-word poem at TEDx NCState which was shared to the official channel. He received a first place prize for “The Big Mistake” and an honorable mention for “body parts” for the North Carolina Poetry Society’s Pinesong Awards. His poem "Portrait at 20" was selected for feature in "Portrait at 34", an innovative photobooth art installation by Najja Moon to honor their late cousin Kaliah Aisha Moon and her poem "Portrait at 34", as part of O, Miami Poetry Festival. His poem was printed for all who entered in 20 as their age.