Susan Barry-Schulz

ATROPHY, DISPATCH FROM A FLARE

My tongue was a boat full of holes.
There was music, but I don’t remember

what it was. On the surface of my holy tongue
cracked gardens bloomed. The pocked tract

of my insides bucked and heaved, aggrieved.
My pocked insides kept track of the tiny bites

& sips I took between naps—pureed banana,
crushed ice, steamed rice. Between naps,

between ice, between rice, I searched for reason.
On the borrowed couch in the living room,

I drifted away December’s dark hours. Adrift
on the borrowed couch I watched as raindrops

thickened against the pane. A body treading air.
Fear is the worst medicine. Medicine failed my pain.

Filled my body with fear beyond reason. My mind deep
in a timeless well, my feet in the bogs of Saaremaa.

Mind you, I was in a different place. This went on
for some time. I lost my Estonian thighs.

If there was music,
I don’t remember what it was.

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