(They called it the sacred disease for a while until they didn’t.)
I live inside the seizure,
post-ictal, consciously sleepwalking,
watching myself in a movie reel
full of desire and loss.
I gleefully resurrect the dead, always in color.
Effigies no longer, they come to life,
as animated marionettes from the crypt,
while I remember the forgotten.
Behind me are those I love,
gently reflected in the twinkling
crystals of chandeliers and beeswax tapers.
I smell the past hungrily,
apples and raisins, gulping the air.
Wandering these hallowed halls,
I hear the voices I crave, giggling.
It is a living death,
a reunion unmarred by time,
charged somehow by the electricity
in my damaged brain.
I sink deeper, frolicking,
unbothered by the external fracas
and feeling no pain,
I visit my aunt’s house next door.
My cousins play basketball
while I read a book on the front steps.
I smell homemade crumb cake baking
and hear Coltrane.
I go down and down and feel no fear.
It’s not cold here.
There are so many labyrinths and mazes
filled with memories and hope.
Dragged farther down, I find all the doors open,
welcoming.
I stop for a moment and sense my truth.
It smells of salt air and ripe tomatoes.
I am pulled back; my eyes are open yet I’m blind.
I’m not ready.
My world is solid again, dull, flat.
I flail and resist while strange hands touch me.
My grip is not tight enough.
What was so authentic now flashes at odd intervals.
I ignore the ER staff, who talk like I’m not there,
and vomit on one of their shoes.
They pump me up with Ativan.
Now I can see, but not what I want to.
I take comfort in knowing it will happen again
but, for now, I contemplate the remnants,
like a witch alone in a dark cool forest,
bent over a deep scrying pool,
illuminated only by the full moon.
Kristine is a classical pianist and writes poetry and prose. She is currently at work on a novel and full length book of poetry. Her work has been published in Poetry Superhighway and NJ Bards Anthology 2025. She is a native of New Jersey and the proud mother of two daughters.
