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Symbols and sigils flood the forebrain as I walk through the metal and wired glass doors. With an whoosh of air, they close as if mocking the breath I had held in too long. Fear beaded in the sweat on my upper lip. What had once been the blissful gold-tinged vessel of apple blossom days had now turned into the hollow boned reality of a Dali summer, a loveless leaden pit of dread. Constant incessant sobbing, gagging, rocking did little to quell the practice’s belief that I was deranged. 

parents watch	
through the window:
paper cup pills

He was bald, and full of hmmm’s, nodding as I babbled. A seventies summer started with first love in a hayfield, ended in a heroin fright. The local quack had assured me it was all a communist plot to overtake the youth of America. Really, one should never tell their parents the truth. They certainly hadn’t checked in with their brains when their seed and egg mixed a proclivity for alcoholism with a dollop of bipolar mania. “Ahhh, hmmmm,” The Doctor said. “Two weeks rest should do you fine.”   

First Published in Tincture Journal, Australia April 2014

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