Paxil’s Retreat

 

Three days later, I sweat

oval pills through pores.

The band, electricity

 

flows

 

through gray matter.

My temples

 

throb,

 

rhythm like a barb

clasped on a wasp.

Those words, that voice,

 

tangle

 

Into quick plucks

of a harp, make the right

side of my brain

 

twitch;

 

chemicals take reward

from the thump of nerves.

My brain turns,

 

rearranges,

 

invites old sensations.

Playing stops, body

 

sighs.

 

Paris Hughes is a freelance writer from New Orleans, Louisiana. Her articles have appeared in the New Orleans-based Cognition Magazine and Bayou Buzz, and her poetry was recently published in The Literary Yard.

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