The Anxiety Dialogue
by Janaya Martin

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​On my lunch break
I shovel spicy noodles
into my mouth while I
try to conjure the poems
I haven’t written yet.

If only I could burn incense here, practice
bloodletting, dance, scream, wail, hum here.

My morning coffee still sits on
my desk waiting to be drunk
but it’s cold now and there isn’t
enough cream. I should choke it
down anyway, it was free.

I’ve been considering medicine
more often than suicide these
days so I think that means progress.

My mother’s birthday was yesterday
and I didn’t even get her a card.
It’s not her fault anymore, but her face
reminds me of how alone I feel most days.

My grandmother paid for breakfast and her slow
pace made me think of the vanishing of bees.
She will leave us and what then?

Who will help us bloom again
and again? Who will give us honey
when the whole world is salt?