Cloudy Days
Once in a while there’s a heavy cloud
looming over my horizon:
I wonder how it got there
and when will it leave.
It’s as if the universe
has pushed smoke in my eyes—
the visibility more gray.
This last time was scary
as I gathered tranquilizers
in one place: a safely hidden bottle
no words on it, except, out—
a message to myself.
I went to sleep with it at my bedside,
without taking one, I awakened the next morning,
eyes open, but body still
not wanting to budge.
I roll over, hug my sixteen year old Maltese poodle,
and tell him to hold me tight
because if I go, I want his
spirit to come with me.
This ritual goes on for a few days
until I decide to call my shaman
who sets me straight
and tells me that the universe
is not ready to lose me
and he would also be very sad.
I tell him it doesn’t matter
and he shakes his head and says it does.
He glances up to the heavens
for answers and tells me
that the voices in my head
are wrong and need to change.
I agree—
go get some lemon water,
meditate, take a sauna and do yoga,
and remember that there are five
grandchildren out there who love you, he says.
I just can’t do what my grandma did to me
and overdose when I was just ten.