After a Seizure, 7am

(I wrote this during a seizure — something I’ve never done before — and then added the bit below the asterisk after it was over, and things didn’t feel so magical anymore. Then, after workshopping it with my (mainly) prose writing group, I wrote a second version. Not sure which I like better. The second version is trying to make it understandable, while the first version is trying to mimic the experience.)

Everything looks
so clean.

Even the dusty
bathroom is clean,
complete.

There’s a sheen
to each
object — not an aura;
I mean, a light
from within.

Some calm
purpose.

A happiness.

I pour tea,
pour juice,
then forget
I did it.

Then remember,
go back
to the counter and
laugh:
they’re neatly
equidistant,
the space evenly
divided by
a banana.

Drinking the tea,
drinking the juice,
looking out the window,
the pearl-gray wings
of a pigeon flash
white in sunlight
into a cornice
of the church.

Dostoyevsky was right:
I will never
let anything
break the spell
of this peace.

Ever.

***

An hour later,
the light is too bright,
everything’s a mess,
and there’s something
I should be doing.

__________________


Having a Seizure, 7am

The apartment looks
mysterious. I walk through each room
feeling complete.

The bathroom seems so clean.
There’s a sheen to each plastic travel size sunscreen,
can of dry shampoo, each nail polish bottle
on the immaculate glass shelves.
All have a history, calm purpose,
their own happiness.

I pour tea, pour juice, then forget
I did it. Then remember — go back and laugh:
the cups sit, neatly equidistant, evenly divided by
a banana.

Out the window, a pigeon’s pearl-gray wing
flashes into a cornice of the church.

Who said, I would not exchange this felicity
for all the joys that health may bring??
Dostoyevsky?
When the seizure’s over,
it’ll come to me.

*

But when it’s over: lights
too bright, glass shelves
dull with dust, headache
beginning, some oppressive thing
I should be doing.