13 Auras for a Migraine

Maureen Seaton


One travels clockwise, harboring knives.

            One holds a sickle.

                        In a glass atop a bomb, one shatters mind.

            Holy David Byrne, I say.

(The head is never silent.)

            The left side of the brain tolls, whirling longitude.

                        The right side is a cliff of mud.

            Along the horizon: zigging steam shovels.

Up close: zagging zebras.

            Now one makes a nest in the eye.

                        One shits along the cortex.

            At noon, hemispheres cast shadows in opposite directions.

Creatures on the equator fall, murdered by sun.