By Marcia LeBeau
My brain is always complaining as it crawls toward
El Dorado, eyes upturned waiting for a lightning storm
to stun it speechless. But the sky never claps
open and there is no silence. Its knees bleeding,
mouth running, my brain doesn’t hear the alarm go off
in the morning, forgets to cancel its gym membership
even though it stopped going years ago. I have no choice
but to ignore my brain. Walk to the other side
of the street when I see it. Stop answering its whiny
voicemails. I have a vision during a massage of my brain
glistening like raw hamburger meat on the pavement
below a flashing motel sign. The meat turns
to blue glitter slime the neighborhood kids
sell for fifty cents a bag that smells like cotton candy.
I steal a bag because it’s my brain, after all, and toss it
on the kitchen counter. My brain is petrified I’m going
to throw it away and begs for mercy. I pick it up,
slap it on the table, pound it, then ooze it between
my fingers. It feels smooth and cold and reassuring. I knead it
a little longer before I throw it in the trash. My hands
are stained blue, glitter flecks my clothes, but finally, silence.
Marcia LeBeau‘s poems and essays have been published or forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly, Moon City Review, Rattle, and elsewhere. She owns The Write Space in Orange, New Jersey, a co-working space for creative writers.