Girl’s Guide to Depression

In search of lassoes and invisible planes

I don’t do yoga or write that novel I never write, don’t drink green tea in red cups, chart archipelagoes, knit flaming strings of words into clumsy scarves. Instead I email people with furry exotic pets, query strangers about lassoes and invisible planes. Instead I tell my ex I’m finally breaking out of black, enter the orange tip of a cigarette as evidence.

I immerse maudlin in cheap wine, drop Freud into a beaker of whiskey to see if he floats. I read a book about the color of Wednesday (blue), transcribe an interview with an angel who says heaven is like Florida without the humidity, but that it’s still hard to take because they’ve got their little cliques going on.

For thirty-seven days after midnight, poetry makes me almost believe in God. I want to wear a silver lyre on a silver chain — want to feel its coolness against my skin and find peace in silence. For once, I want to be good at sound — want to touch the score motionless on the stand and hear the storm in the conductor’s head before he lowers his baton.

Lori Lamothe is the author of three poetry collections, Kirlian Effect, Trace Elements and Happily.