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antipsychotica

​​I don’t imagine a blank space.

Maybe location is the sixth sense.

Every body has a border.

Oh no, they don’t.

Every body, a seeping creature.

If I bark out light.

Hint: there never was a cure.

Delicious mechanics, to write

beautiful lists.

Fantastic impulses.

And that’s what I am, a body

questioning the tools.

Morning dew in this sequence.
Picture
Samuel Joshua Beckett. Loie Fuller Dancing, 1900. Gelatin silver print. Gilman Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

ANTIPSYCHOTICA

When I’m finished, I’ll let you know.

Every sequence, crashing into.

White pillows, but then three weeks

later, the pillows change.

I keep track of the pillows.

My life in her dissection, my oh.

Who decides what depth is anyways?

Oh, breaking into.

She favors flowing, gauzy skirts.

Festive toenails with vibrant lacquer.

She’s my way out of this tall catastrophe.

Later, I make tea in my homelight.

I take notes in the yard, not far

from a harbor breeze.

Jenny Drai is the author of three full-length collections of poetry, two poetry chapbooks, and a novella. Learn more at jennydrai.com.
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  • Home
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    • Masthead
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    • Issue One
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    • Issue Four
    • Issue Five
    • Issue Six
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    • Issue Eight
    • Issue Nine
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    • Issue Thirteen
    • Issue Fourteen
    • Issue Fifteen
  • Guidelines