What the doctor promises the drug trazodone to do are not the results of the author's experience.

I am not lazy,
nor am I crazy.
I feel both today.

Awake before the singing of the clock:
a good sign.
I arise, hopeful, but then . . .
hope is punctured and removed
as easily as Jim’s gall bladder.

Someone has screwed a tourniquet onto my temples.
My heart threatens to blow up in my hands and ankles.
Lightning strikes in my head,
and however firmly I press,
it will not easily say goodbye.
My skin begs to explode and
my stomach boxes against my innards.
I’m as nervous as a kettle, and
anger steams from my mouth:
This is not me! This cannot be me!
I hurry upstairs, downstairs,
clucking like a half-dead chicken.

I will lie down and sleep this away.
Surely the angels will come
(for I have prayed ten years)
and release me of this demon.
But sleep has come and gone and left no promises.

Last night I tasted trazodone.
It will make you sleep, the doctor assured.
Aw, sweet sleep, I crave you.
It will dry your tears before they shape.
I despise my tears.
Come, trazodone, go into me,
be my lover for one night.

Now today I know two facts:
I love my tears and,
trazodone will never seduce me again.

©2003 Carol Hegberg