by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois.
Maybe it’s because
I grew up poor in Mississippi
The day before a migraine
I want to eat dirt
I find myself out in the garden
fighting to restrain my urges
Then come the holes in my vision
the sizzling light
the world a nauseating blur
throbbing pain
The children crowd in
around the ice cream counter
shrieking orders
Their voices rip-saw through my skull
This is how I make my living
If I flee I’ll be sleeping on the street
That won’t help my migraines
I raise my hands to silence them
but my gesture has no effect
It’s not in their vocabulary
A memory breaks in
the origin of that gesture
It was used by a grade school teacher
when the class got out of control
That man wore shabby black suits
a perpetual grimace
shaved haphazardly
His quieting gestures
never worked
I have a flash of insight—
that poor man
also suffered from migraines