← v21n1, Spring 2022
Poetry · Volume 21, Number 1

Ars Poetica

Let’s say the night before I had swallowed sixty-four Advils, no one finding me when I took the rattling bottle from the cabinet or downed the first twenty, counting and swallowing two by two like my mouth was Noah’s ark. I wake up alone on the bathroom floor some hours later, a stew of red pills half dissolved around my head. I clean it up, dizzy, still unfound.