Pleasure’s edge is the end of a glass,
Bubbling, its true contents hidden with
Lemon juice, lemon and lime soda or
Lemonade, its flavor cloaking, like a
Large coat, on top of anything, outcomes
That need over-the-counter cures. After
Several shots, I taste low retention, crab
Legs, a cheap chicken sandwich from
Somewhere, a consenting neck, crevice,
Cuddle in the cusp of morning, not
Mourning much, but the hurting head, its
Heavy chokehold. I read the brain shrinks
For a moment, during hangovers, though I
Make headway, feel expanded, learn
Life's lamentable taste, its toxins,
Interim tonics, and saccharine mixers.
I lost a synonym for regulate,
Control, before I said yes, before I
Could fake contemplation, gouge
Or pick my brain before an emphatic,
Desperate, fervor-filled yes. I forgot
Regulate, in terms of regular, Latin—
Rule, reg as in king or man over me,
Dictating when I must uncork my mouth.
I’m told regicide is rarely chosen,
For right now the monarchy is cheap,
Safe, and retains the brain’s chemistry.
And I agree until my reliant, reeling, feeble
Mind—finds me lurking earth without its
Pill, until I have to swear I forgot, to take it.
In my palm, I squeeze it. This
may be edible, or the universe—
only one of those have been proven,
yet I do not eat; I try to see if it will
break, be the first to do something
not required. Absurd as it is,
I do not eat eggs, though they do have
as many amino acids as breast milk.
Absurd as it is, I did not drink breast
milk, or break the egg, or break
bone tissue. The moon today,
silently thanks egg, elliptic
cycles, for seeming to be effortless,
how it gains weight, and then loses it.
Prince Bush is a poet and graduating senior at Fisk University. More poems can be found through https://pbush.com