Negotiating with Migraine

            after “In Bed” (1968), an essay by Joan Didion about migraine

If only it were only

the world gone vivid, the colors

more colorful than I have a right to see.

If only it were simply hearing

the far-away bird chirp,

the petals of a flower stretching open,

the complexity of song.

If only it were just the skin

feeling the world, tickled with joy.

If only the aura came every time.

If only the aura didn’t fool me

every single time, the gift

before the slap to the face,

smacking the eye socket hard.

At least, the pain waits

for its prey to get through a meal,

finish teaching a class, start cleaning up

after a great party to celebrate.

At least, the neck knows

and then the nerve of it.

At least, there exists a list of triggers.

At least, a tiny pill takes the edge

off—no, there are many edges.

At least darkness and cold.

At least, we talk about it: try this,

avoid that, me too, just like you.

If only, we hadn’t been talking seriously

for so many decades—such a long time

to wait out the next

hormone drop, storm cloud, wine sip,

spearmint, lilac, fresh-cut lawn,

missed meal, sleepless night, thirst,

stress, strain, tension, joy,

light, motion, the fan spinning overhead.

If only, at least—

—if only there were a last migraine,

not just another one we last through.