mid-migraine

As the cam rotates,

blood thundering your

cranium in its vice,

do not forget to breathe–

even as your orbital bones

fracture and pierce the

globes of your eyes, your

hand gripping the seam of your skull

in the garland of osmium that

jails your torn temples (until

killing would be kindness).

Light and movement are

merciless here, and there is

nothing to be done but breathe.

Observe your scalenes

pulled from their tubercles,

queasiness rising in

rivulets of bile;

hushed salts hop your eyes,

teeming downwards, pooled

under your chin. Your thoracic

vertebrae avalanche and

weight your botticelli body to bed,

xanthous hair splayed like a pin-up;

your form a pendulum, its amplitude a

zero-sum game.