The Vertigo Decade is Spinning At a Tilt
A poem
Like a ship crashing into waves rollicked by a cruel sea hued with greens and purple — heaves me up, hurls me against bedsheets. I dream. I’m dreaming —
sweat is building drop by drop against tiny neck hairs. To wake would facilitate a crash. I can’t, I won’t. I dream of carousels spinning on ceilings, mule’s tongues hanging sideways, drool accumulating.
When the sun does arise, I try to rise. The room is sideways. The blood rushes in circles through my body. I sit and wait, aggravated by the discomfort. It invites complete stillness, the absence of thought.
The reprieve of stillness is holy. Oh, holy morning here to greet me. Slowness descends. Each move is a microaggression to avoid, to tend.
Seasickness resumes with the slightest movement. Time to try the Neti pot, Sudafed, water, holy basil and oregano tea.
This slanted living won’t be willed away. My jaw sets hard, my temper aflare… I take my index finger and apply pressure the way my doctor showed me against my upper molars.
Pain and then relief. Vertigo, you may go. You are relieved. Goodbye to seasick waters and spinning mules. Please stay away. You hurt me.