Birthday Sun
BY RANDY TRISTANT
Split me in half,
cut me in two –
with your ice-pick
there’s no need to cauterize the wound.
People are not medicine
so sever the white matter from the gray;
whomp in your icy orbitoclast
and get your way
with my prefrontal cortex.
Divvy me up
so that every day stays the same,
and the weeks all blend together;
render me benumbed, lethargic, akinetic.
A disease of opposites, of extremes,
of nonsensical contradictions
of a river running hot
of a river running cold.
Cluster B
cabinets full of benzodiazepines,
divalproex, electroconvulsive therapy –
a backpack so heavy hat
I am left in the morning
with an overdose that killed me years ago.