Veg Tabled
She sleeps like a bee, hive balled,
with a mouth full of retribution;
the cold has rolled up her wings.
The dose has doubled yet she feels cut in half,
doctor said take it but paranoia has set
like winter permafrost, a frigid layer of entrapment
that prevents anything swallowed to stay down.
The vomit bucket rests near her bed
always willing to take what is given,
but she is giving up, a preference
to sheath that stinger, poison pooled
for another night when the moment is right.
She may never be right, right,
that flight has left her buzzing in a bed,
only the build up of snore noise will wake her
but it’s a deep sleep, her mouth falls back,
remains in wait to taste the next rutabaga blossom
swayed her way. Inhale, exhale, honey.
R Jay Slais’ recent or forthcoming publication credits include poems at Barnwood, Boston Literary Magazine, Cause & Effect, Clockwise Cat, MiPOesias, and Mississippi Crow. A single father, raising his two children, he’s an engineer/inventor in Metro Detroit Michigan.