Circa 2001: the year of the mid-life crisis and bout of depression. Though I was only 31 at the time, and I plan to live past 62, so I suppose "life crisis" is more accurate than "mid-life crisis."
“No
one lights a lamp and hides it in a jar or puts it under a bed.”
You keep the anti-Christs
in your make-up case,
swallow eight pink pills
twice a day
as directed:
Take and eat. This is your body.
“Instead,
[s]he puts it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.”
You forage to find
the right shade of red
lipstick that will make flesh desirable
to flesh, to find the perfect flesh-
colored concealer to shade
the scars and blemishes.
“For
there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed
that will not be known or brought out into the
open.”
Prescriptions are spiritual
cosmetics: FDA approved faith
healers/ concealers/ stealers
pitching a sale
you can’t refuse.
“Therefore
consider carefully how you listen.”
Listen carefully: the script
calls for cosmetic sponges,
but instead of applying
they’re trying to absorb
an insatiable desire.
“Whoever
has will be given more; whoever does not have, even what [s]he thinks
[s]he
has will be taken from [her].”
I had the light of God in me,
you said. Refuse the wine,
refuse the bread, they said:
This is the only communion
you need now:
A bit of Lithium, a dram of Amitryptiline,
and a pinch of Valproic acid too—
a custom pharmaceutical brew
to conceal the witch in you—
burned at the State,
if you don’t swallow
as directed:
Take and eat. This is your body.
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