Jennifer K. Sweeney
MIGRAINE
Clack of morning, jaw’s
a locked spring,
hinges at the temples,
skull’s bent plates slide in
and the sun
with its steady sun-notes
and sun cheer, I’ve taken on
the yellow, taken the whole
lit swift into my mouth
and clamped it shut.
To toss from fluid
to stone, from the willow’s
lithe branch to the rust
on its bark and grow
so hard, I’ve taken
on the warp of the wood
in heat, its radial
everywhere kind of press.
Clack of evening, still
the tongs in the pasta,
wedge of salad, still scour
pots with steel mesh,
wring the dishtowel, wring
the atlas holding up the hours,
rod here, ram there, lights
dim, aspirin again, aspire
to quiet, from willow bark
comes the medicine, again
the cleaving, sleep to leaving.