Oh Pharmacist, I stand before you ready
to receive the Eucharist of possible side effects.
1. Tremor
2. Dizziness
3. Nausea
4. …
On the third night, my friends
brought me a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
They said, Naomi, take and eat.
They said, Honey, there is something
seriously wrong with you
and when you are finished,
we will take you in for a psych evaluation
but for now, ENJOY.
I said, Can I have a diet coke with that?
Next day, hospital, diagnosis,
my first sacrament of medication,
Zoloft and Lithium,
the names so light, they were
poems I swallowed.
Poems that rewrote my neuro pathways
for a decade.
Oh Pharmacist, I had to return to
your sacred alcove in Safeway.
Another Eucharist.
Paxil with Lithium this time.
1. Anxiety
2. Insomnia…
When Paxil failed it was as if
a sign in my cerebellum said:
SIDEWALK CLOSED UP AHEAD.
Then, back to the alcove for Seroquel.
Oh Pharmacist, I named my dog Seroquel.
I’m not sure what I thought I would achieve.
Just a bold anti-stigma moment.
Every time I shout her name at
the doggie park….Seroquel!
I call an antipsychotic towards me.
Seroquel gave me
one good year.
I felt almost normal.
My friend, Gracie, has a button that says:
Our Lady of Perpetual Mood Swings.
That year I didn’t have any.
I went to sleep happy and woke the same.
Then the sidewalk closed.
Nardil. Parnate. Elavil.
The sidewalk closed.
The sidewalk closed.
Zyprexa was round and yellow.
Depakote, gray and large–
stuck in my throat.
Pharmacist, do you ever tire
of giving your Eucharist, your
host on tidy pieces
of white paper?
I don’t collect them but
I think I should.
Make something.
Perhaps origami swans.
When I was a kid, my mother
used to give me aspirin
sometimes for a headache.
The bottle rattled when she picked it up.
The quiet yellow light of our bathroom.
A glass of water.
That one pill in the palm of her hand.
On the third night, my friends
brought me a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
“Honey,” they said.
