I thought I was cured—
that the squirming feeling in my stomach had stopped—
that it went to sleep along with the anxious
breath my lungs hide when I hear about a new house
bought, this marriage sealed, this baby
born—I wish
my years
would feel less like dreamed decades and more real—
that somehow my shredded apartment would be
a home,
but I’m still ill,
and get cold chills
when I see those tall sharp buildings and endless roads—
when I hear the clattering teeth of the talking human being
on stage, their words wet and thick with
the smothering future and
the market value of things
and the career trajectories of
people and the hard work involved…the vacation
plans and
retirement plans and
insurance plans and
health plans and
plans of plans and
plans and—I’m sick,
and my stomach is churning again,
but the schematics of my life refuse
to burn in the incinerator
no matter how high I turn up the flames.