Yikes, Since When Do I Write Poetry

When I'm depressed
It's not enough to think of my favorite things
Like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

There are no favorite things.
Nothing except the toxic soup gurgling through my veins,
Poisoning memories and thoughts and possibilities.

I need to do more than think of my favorite things:
I have to visualize, reset my synapses,
Time-travel, will myself with all my might to:

My bed, under the down comforter, with the window open to a chilly early-spring night.

The open sea on the boat, standing at bow watch on a still night.

Or a beach, with my head and belly on the hot sand and the sun on my back and the waves in my ears.

The sofa, curled up tight on my side with my head next to the purring cat.

A Q train going across the Manhattan Bridge during a sunny morning rush hour, the moment the Statue of Liberty comes into view and the swelling feeling that Wow--I really live here.

My backyard in Montana during a warm, clear, dry-heat summer day, barefoot, watching the ants in the grass

Pilates class, when I manage to forget ache and place, and all I am is breath and body.

If I can just reclaim one of those moments in my mind, rescue it from the toxic soup and put it on dry land, there is hope that this time
I will not be swallowed whole.