The Mind Is Its Own Place
Ann Townsend
Mated and unmated,
starlings swarm1 the willow2
with their devotions
until the tree roils
and sways, wing-beats
sounding the torrent
through which they swim.
Dopamine, paroxetine,
an injection of adrenaline
into the bloodstream:
these deliver the dissident
fuel I crave3 for the mind's
pleasure, and for its pain.
Call it one song indispensable
to trouble the branching
arteries4. The willow divinates
toward water, switching
in the breeze; it grazes
the edge but cannot
rest there. My fingertips
pressed against my temples:
