Wheeler Light

Getting Off Seroquel

In the small of the night, I buy
anything I can—a wide mouth
widening further. In the street,
they fixed the flickering light
and now, nothing is a blur
passing unremarkably by.
In the small of the night, I can’t
sleep. I need the inconsistency.
My bloodstream is a river
no solution floats down.
They say the answer for bipolar
is medication, take the pill.
Open your mouth. They fixed
the light. I can see everything.
It is so clear. My life. What I want.

Formal Concerns

The famous poet asks
how I define poetry

and I say magic.
He says he believes

poetry is form and content
merged with special attention

toward imagery, metaphor,
and other devices.

In my bed, at 2 am, my cat
cleans herself. My blanket

which was once blanket
is now mostly cat hair.

I read a good poem by an LED light
designed to mimic halogen,

soft on the eyes. My Betty
nudges my hand with her head.

I make space for her head
and hold it like it is something

I made it away with, like there is
no way life was supposed to be

perfect and it’s not, but moments
like these exist. I light a candle

to read by candlelight.
To define poetry: that which brings me

joy even it is full of sorrow, and sorrow
too. The right words always

escaping. Tulip bulbs dormant
through winter. The air-conditioned air

slips unnoticed out the screen door.

Wheeler Light (he/him) is an MFA candidate at the University of Virginia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in poetry.online, Rattle, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Broadsided, among other publications. He is the author of Blue Means Snow (Bottlecap Press 2017) and Hometown Onomastics (Pitymilk 2018). You can find his work at www.wheelerlight.net.