Welbutrin

I’m taking little purple pills. I keep

them in a sky blue glass box by the sink

Sometimes I push and push

(good mother, food mother)

but I can’t get out

of this house.

I am scraping these walls,

shaving them, smoothing them

blank as a page and ripe as stone

looking for a stinging cut,

a word, the force behind some hand

that strikes finalities.

I am not a good housekeeper.

flour moths

fly out of the cupboards.

I throw away the oyster crackers:

larvae are squirming in each hexagon

hollowed out by tiny mouths

to hold their young.

I’ve thrown away a lot of food

but I‘ve never gotten rid of them.

I  scrunch scrunch

inside the box.

The wall is sky cold

my thinking crinkles

as this blue slides in and

makes a static white of it.

I don’t miss a thing.

I’m taking little purple pills. I keep

them in a sky blue glass box by the sink