Now that you know

there are at least 50 ways to cure your sadness
but most of the ones that I am fond of
involve hard liqueur and reckless red lips

sometimes I just can't sit inside of my skin
I have to move fast like a boxer
counting out all of the beats of my brain
I have to read Wallace Stevens by the train tracks
& tell my husband that I am going out for milk
but instead standing in a nearby field
dizzy from the motion
woozy from the worry
I kick at the cake mud wet ground and wonder
when it will be that I am a good person