The Migraine

 

The migraine pulled silk

thread through one eyeball

 then out the other.

Sickness in her throat,

where illness sulks,

vessel for the blood,

a holding tank:

 it will be like this,

one day, one night,

inside a fever.

Bright pocket of perception burns,

the edges of one’s flimsy gown

of bark and cloth and sweat.

 His hand smooth as river rocks, cool as sheets

where your body has not yet lain.

Now you hold the seed

in his eyes, a silence, like a prayer, like a song,

yet pebbles tumble from your hair,

fingers full of seaweed,

your hands reach for yesterday’s clothes,

for yesterday.