My grandmother left her beloved husband and shining daughter to come to Hollywood to write screenplays in the 40’s
and when she felt too anxious or too sad
received shock treatments in some clinic
whose name I’ll never know
My mother worried all the time
infections and earthquakes, cancer and accidents
She never took a drug in her life
Until the morphine on her death bed
just a drop
I swallow one half pill each day
5 mg.--the very smallest dose
To stop the loop of worried
What if my gods had this?
Anne and Sylvia? Vincent and Virginia?
Would they have lived? Would they have been
the artists that they were?
I always have enough
pain inside to write
but this treatment makes it hard to come or cry
So, the other night, dripping honeyed nectar
I was grateful to you
Even for the tears