Louise Glasscoe
Prescription
My sister says I take too long between breaths
never look her in the eye,
live in a shadow my shade of grey.
She puts the light on, looks at me naked:
my nails have gouged deep groves in my skin.
She has a nurse's grip and needle eye.
I look down, I don't look up.
She says there are no full stops to my sentences,
laughs at the bones that poke out at my elbows,
looks me up and down - my jokes are at odd angles.
I look down, I don't look up.
I am repetitive, I am repetitive,
she gives me 100 years of sedative.
I swaddle in my bedclothes, sleep too much
and cotton, she says, is the wrong fabric.
I look down, I don't look up.
My food is too cold:
I drink slop through a straw.
She prescribes beans for a feast.
I look down, I don't look up.
My lifestyle is crooked, knees grazed, fingernails jagged.
She says I should live in a bandage, in a poetry box.
I should write sweet nothings.
She says bad men are a powerful emetic,
good men are medicine.
I look down, I don't look up.
I hopscotch the pavement:
she shadows my movements,
shows me the rain-soaked shop windows
with her face in it.
I look down, I don't look up.
never look her in the eye,
live in a shadow my shade of grey.
She puts the light on, looks at me naked:
my nails have gouged deep groves in my skin.
She has a nurse's grip and needle eye.
I look down, I don't look up.
She says there are no full stops to my sentences,
laughs at the bones that poke out at my elbows,
looks me up and down - my jokes are at odd angles.
I look down, I don't look up.
I am repetitive, I am repetitive,
she gives me 100 years of sedative.
I swaddle in my bedclothes, sleep too much
and cotton, she says, is the wrong fabric.
I look down, I don't look up.
My food is too cold:
I drink slop through a straw.
She prescribes beans for a feast.
I look down, I don't look up.
My lifestyle is crooked, knees grazed, fingernails jagged.
She says I should live in a bandage, in a poetry box.
I should write sweet nothings.
She says bad men are a powerful emetic,
good men are medicine.
I look down, I don't look up.
I hopscotch the pavement:
she shadows my movements,
shows me the rain-soaked shop windows
with her face in it.
I look down, I don't look up.
Page(s) 12
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