Wash Me – A Poem by Rowe Williams

In the morning 
and every night 
I wash my brain 
in antidepressant. 

To take the edge off, you see. 

I'm still not quite right 
but it's been long enough 
I don't remember what that's like. 

The existence of antidepressants 
indicates, in my mind, 
the presupposition that presence 

in this life is superior, 
in some fashion, to whatever 
comes after, clearly, or 

that at least you should take 
the devil you know. 
So I wash when I sleep or wake. 

And I ignore the ache.