For Days I Could Speak Only in Clichés

through the depression. 

I felt, without a body, something in agony 


or maybe a body without a soul, stiff 

and too heavy to pull from the bed. 


Yes – an obese body, my own flesh and grief, 

too heavy for my body to lift. There is 

no other way to tell you: I woke up 

afraid I was going to live. 


There is no other way to explain 

how I was overwhelmed 

by the most mundane things – 

dishes, the shower, breakfast. 

I could not be anywhere. 


I ran from Saint Louis 

across the rolling ground to Colorado, 

where I found the mountains 

could no longer offer me their comfort, 

to my mother’s house in Pennsylvania, 

where the red wolves used to hunt and stalk, 

to Chicago. 


From Chicago I crawled back 

to my heavy, tired body, to find 

that where the soul had been there was 

now a hard river stone – 

small and cold and flat. Many suggested 

a hospital stay, but what could doctors

do for a stone?


I craved a body I could crawl into.


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