Lee Patterson

an essay about mental health

last week the dog buried my head in the backyard, & this morning I woke up vomiting bluebirds. there’s nothing
weird about loving you
, I tell the bluebirds as I use a damp washcloth to wipe the bile off their beaks. there are
thought bubbles floating above my head which are filled with a list of facts: I know god because you have eyes & I
get to stand in front of them. also: the sky gets foggy when too many people start dreaming at the same time. I
could be a giant why not
, I tell you, as you sit in the middle of the living room with your legs crossed. you’re
building a birdhouse out of popsicle sticks for the bluebirds. you’re not listening, but I keep talking. I could be as
tall as weather,
I say, breath thicker than space, stepping over buildings like anthills, sitting on parking garages
like park benches
.

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Lee Patterson's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Queen Mob's Teahouse, San Pedro Review, Unbroken and Love's Executive Order, among others. His chapbook, I get sad, is forthcoming from Ethel Zine in late 2019.