Prescriptions

To forget how a body becomes a church, doors

splintered and gasping, call on a daughter

to trickle lorazepam and morphine under the apse

of your blistered tongue. Ask this with stained-

glass hands that flicker along the bedsheet.

To leave the service, wait for the moment

your children shut their eyes and lose

themselves in music. Maybe it’s your wedding. No,

you eloped with a close-mouthed man. He’s gone now.

Sneak out the back, forgetting your coat.

There was a time you sat in a garden alone.

Return there. Resist mothering for a while or forever.

Sit on the grass as if it’s easy to rise when you want.

The tender blades love you. A remedy

of peonies feels your shine and gives it back.