Anhedonia
"...We make a truce between what is just/and this dour handshake with estimates and wishes."
Hours drip
round the wall,
down the cheek:
Acrid, tasting of
lukewarm tap water.
The dosage too high
though they say
“Give it two months,”
for months on end.
Is anything here as it’s supposed to be?
Here in the land
of Anhedonia,
of mothballs –
a valley of remotes
and endless laying.
One salvia trip
into TV static –
you’re one now
in its buzz —
Its sour quiet screeches
horizontal across the monitor.
& They’re watching,
the doctors, but not concerned
when I am thin and I can focus!
the food tastes gray, though —
the leaden sludge of a life pharmaceutical.
I lie here,
the ceiling bursts
in veins that flagellate
extending like the half-life
hovering above me.
And the sadness here
is: I’m improving!
Forced to reckon with side effects,
the flat affects! The clock.
We make a truce
between what is just
and this dour handshake
with estimates and wishes,
wait times; tradeoffs, unpleasantries
versus what might well even be worse: with dice
rolling on concoctions ’til we drop.
Stasis:
lies here,
a capsule,
a meanwhile
which swallowed
whole: swallows me.
© Maggie McCombs 2025. All Rights Reserved.