I rise on a lonely planet in a blood circle, count
its many moons, like marbles
or small orbs that drop and clink onto the copper earth
from a hole in my cranium.
The taste of blood is permanently affixed to my tongue.
I glue a penny there to hold my mouth silent—as a mother does
to silence her child.
This planet will crust over soon, what I seek
will be buried with me
and besides, I have no pen
and cannot discharge written warnings.
On every continent and every planet
there are kids in trouble
pregnant with worries. Despite the old physics,
there is constant loss of matter and energy.
How much loss can we accumulate
or press together like sandwiches
or pages in a book with stains that leak
upon stacked pages, fusing individual meanings?
When I get agitated, I practice thought stopping.
I do it with my hands, hold my temples
so thoughts don’t scatter helter-skelter like ants.
Then, I take deep cleansing breaths, pocket my fears
deep into my lungs or deeper yet, into my gut, to digest
and excrete. I perform this sequence often:
thought stop, hold temples, sequester anxiety
so as not to bother anyone. These are tricks
my therapist taught me, hoping to convince me to prefer
being in her world.