Aidan Chafe

Trephination

My head is sad again today. I took it

for a walk outside, but the rain

wouldn’t stop laughing. I confuse Prozac

for sunlight. You never stopped

collecting lightbulbs. Never found

a viable solution to the mind-body problem.

I found oxygen in the trenches

of a page. Poetry as airway management.

Poetry as life support. Staring skyward

from this pillory, I want to believe in

these wings made of pills. Doctors used to drill

holes in our skulls to save us from storms.

Father, imagine it was that easy

to exorcise depression through an eyelet.

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