FIX, Sarah McMahon

FIX
by Sarah McMahon

I am out of my prescription, but the pharmacy closed to observe
Easter, though I’m not sure what that looks like. I imagine a pharmacist
carving low-sodium ham his wife asks for seconds, he refuses.

My mother called to tell me I’ve been picked for jury duty.
She also called to wish me Happy Easter, alleluia, He. Is. Risen.
Oh, by the way, the doctor called. She said you’re out of Adderall.

I hope doctors are able to celebrate things, too. Today, I bet they dye
hospital sheets pastel pink, blue, purple patients fed hollow
chocolate bunnies – my doctor says hollow is my brain
not on medication.

My therapist thinks it’s okay to engage in self-pity sometimes,
but that makes me feel mothy – yes I mean mothy, plain and undesirable,
heavy as the pregnant Easter sky waiting to break, waiting to be broken.
I think God wants to fix things –

God must be a doctor. I told my mother this, and her laughter scratched
at my cerebrum, I didn’t mean to be funny. Tomorrow, I will march
one mile – a top hat circling monopoly board, I will end

at the pharmacy, wait while pills are counted, count the bottles
of Vitamin D – there are twenty-seven, and they are chewable.
I wish sunlight was chewable, bitter as orange peels –
I’d swallow it anyway.
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