Each day she carries a briefcase of bone
filled with three juicy pounds of secrets
unlocked by forty-eight oz. of wizards.
Every day she holds her mind in origami-
folded wedges of memory and movement.
Some days she does not like the pearl-
sized hypothalamus who seems to have
no real regard for how she wants to feel.
Behind the shell of her forehead, a small
argument forms, but before she can speak,
she must run each debate by Brocha’s area
then await the mysterious transformation
of her fluid thoughts poured into words.
In an eye blink, the occipital section of her
briefcase links images to information, but
the concealed wizards get there first then
tell her only what they’re willing to reveal.
Oh, well. She won’t open the case by herself
anyway. You might as well give her the truth.
Give her purple to drink and pictures drawn
by magnets! Draw her perspective. Draw her to
someone who loves her or, at least, will assess
her attaché case before emptying everything
out. Find a soft handle. Hand her a hanky.
Handle each nerve with a pledge and a glove.