Notes from a Medically Unnecessary Ride Home
My “friend” the Catholic doctor
drives me home, screens me
for schizophrenia. Her diagnosis: I’m supervised.
God speaks to me from inside.
My diagnosis: Placid, axiomatic “inside”
suggests a stupidly subtle supernova/superstorm.
The friendly friendless weather radio
inside my person—if I can contain the oddments of guidance
within my person-outline—
with an outside chance
of dubiously recommended supersonic jets—
cabs hailed by waving a hand in the sky,
stopping storms or rumors, splitting hairs:
illness or locution.
I would sooner let a star’s implosion
babysit me. In response to the mama star’s condescension, I would start
a rumor about ambiguity: it’s real.
Nearly evening’s passenger, nearly the passenger
of my body’s ambiguity, I will soon enough
ride into sleep
inside my apartment.
For now: my hand in the sky, waving hello, hello to my exit strategy—
The doctor must make sure I am not a dying star. Then I can go
run through the rain.
Amy Poague is an Iowa City-based poet working at a junior high. She holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Michigan University. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Juke Joint, The Cabinet of Heed, ISACOUSTIC*, The Mantle, SWWIM Every Day, Really System, Rockvale Review, and Mojave He[art] Review.