Poem by Ann Gibson (Ireland/ Switzerland)
Published in The Ofi Press issue 41
She would set out pills in rows before her,
arrange in colour groups or sorted shapes,
touch them fondly, deify, adore,
then take them reverently, like communion.
Those little gods dispelled unease and pain;
dissolved her worries, eased her weary load,
let her withdraw from worldy wear and tear.
But restless rumbles reached from underneath
and she caught glimpses of what life could be
if she threw off her veil of lassitude,
cracked open her anaesthesised cocoon.
So, terrified, (till it became the norm)
she grasped challenges, laughed like she meant it,
forced herself to frolic, sought out friends,
hoodwinked her brain to hype some happiness.
She ditched the drugs, limbered up her limbics
on her own. Satisfaction flowed,
gratitude cranked up a chain reaction
till it felt real and good to be alive.
Ann Gibson spent her childhood in Dublin and now lives in North Yorkshire and Switzerland. She has always been an avid reader and has, more recently, learned to enjoy writing and playing with words. She combined these interests when she completed a part-time MA in Literature Studies at St. John’s University in York. She has published poetry in Leaf, Blinking Eye, Biscuit and Chuffed Buff Books anthologies as well as Acumen, Prole and Ariadne’s Thread magazines.
Image: "Pills 1"by e-Magine Art.