That I Could Have a Mental Illness
Kobina Wright  


I should journal like
when I was a teenager.
Racing to my panty drawer
digging for my book with
blue pages, perfumed
angry, hyped up
on my hormones and
sometimes adrenaline.

The possible names of my
unborn children on
the inside cover.
The flimsy brass lock
locked always.
I spat fire and dreamt on sheets
of wood pulp and ink.

Searching for myself through
meandering lines of fine powdery logic
dusting the misspelled words
saddled next to experimentations
with cursing.