on taking 60mg
instead of 40— if
these pills were people, they’d be as old
as my dad, who insists he
does not need therapy, but i
do— i find a new contact,
a cataract. i keep reading license
plates on 287 instead of watching
the cars ahead— dad told me
that distracted driving is just as bad
as drunk driving; i was fourteen in a school
parking lot, practicing to take my mother
to the hospital in case she got sick
again— and my eyes feel filmy like some
kind of milk, can’t really—
remember, little girl, he said,
you are wielding a two ton death machine—
focus on the fact i am windfast and broken
side mirror— the freedom to drive comes
with the responsibility of holding lives
in your palms—, just keep gazing past
the gold horizon.
on taking 1.5 doses
and not telling my doctor
because i am afraid of what
he’ll say but i am no
longer listless, lying in a poppy field, red
faced and counting sheep but losing
is this how my neighbor lives?
awake enough for commute, corner
office, energy after for the
voices of his children?
the capacity to be a person, to be capable of
showering and cooking on the same goddamn day,
every fiber of skin content, in its proper
place, no neurons firing shots into this
nothing: the closed space of bone, alive.
alyssa hanna graduated from Purchase College in 2016. Her poems have appeared or are upcoming in Reed Magazine, The Naugatuck River Review, Rust + Moth, Pidgeonholes, and others. She was nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize, a finalist in the 2017 James Wright Poetry Competition, and a semi-finalist for The Hellebore scholarship. alyssa is a Contributing Editor at Barren Magazine and an aquarium technician in Westchester, living with her four weird lizards. follow her @alyssawaking on twitter, instagram, ko-fi, tumblr, and patreon.