Area 25

Hello, seat of my soul,
light of my lights,
instigator of my pulse to pulse.

I'm embedded in your igneous
rock, your solid-as-a-split-pea pre-cretaceous.
You're the cradle of my me and mine.

Just a little lentil at the summit and crown
of the spine, junction of the head and neck,
this is where I'm told to crow

or sing or not. This pebble is what flexes
my emotional pecs. Unbelievable. Miraculous.
All these years we've been searching the lexicon

for a soul, putting our bodies on the rack,
only to find it's a slug living
in the drainpipe of the brain. With a mirror

and a knife we could meet. All that I have loved
and love has come from you as an electric
shot put, a brief volley

or current and charge. In this election
do I even get a vote? Do you dictate
every square inch from moon to sun?

Am I even now taking dictation?
I know that here-to-fore my choices
haven't always been good, but wait,

were those yours too? You're no bigger than an ice-cube
melting in a bath of whiskey
but couldn't you lift me a bit above the hoi-polloi?

I'd like a new job and a new boyfriend (please)
who called with some regularity
or if I am to suffer could it be

an old-fashioned melodrama with Capulets and Montagues?
I know it's a lot to ask, but asking's
apparently all I'm good for. Therapy's

thus far a wash. Drugs make me an ass.
So, Area 25, I send this petition to you,
little fiefdom of the limbic brain, my liege and king.

Copyright © 2008 Catherine Wing All rights reserved
from The Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission