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.
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.