x marks the spot

I know someone who knows someone who took a Xanax today. I'm lying. It was me for the first time. I forgot the stash of samples someone I know gave me in a Ziploc bag. Blue quarter pieces some of which were pulverized by time. 5 minutes in and the memory of loss was heavy on my knees away from the chest cavity where everything and oxygen is absorbed. This probably wasn't a well conceived plan for a runner slash mother. Getting away breathing is a way to get over.  Should I take another quarter to manage the worry? I'm low, kids are up, bills are high. The anxiety of what's left is enough to make me run around in circles while my husband dreams about a drink.  

love admonition

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine. 
A collaboration. 
I do not believe a word I have said, 
except some, except I think of you like a young tree 
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root 
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go. 
Oh special person, possible leaves, 
this typewriter likes you on the way to them, 
but wants to break crystal glasses 
in celebration, 
for you, 
when the dark crust is thrown off 
and you float all around 
like a happened balloon. 

"Admonition to a Special Person" by Anne Sexton