The afternoon light lights
the room in a smudged
sheen, a foggy-eyed glow.

The dog digs at the couch,
low-growling at the mailman.
I'm spelling words with pills

spilled consolidating bottles:
yes and try and most of happy:
Maybe I'll empty them all.

A woman I don't know
is having a drill drill into her
skull. To get rid of the thing

requires entering the brain.
How to imagine a story
that ends with that ending?

I don't know how to live my life,
but at least today I want to.



About this poem
"Sometimes the best poems are the results of accidents (literal and creative), and that is what happened here: I was consolidating pills from two bottles into one, and I accidentally spilled the pills on the coffee table. It was a dreary Northeastern winter, so I found myself sitting there seeing what words I could spell with the pills. I realized I was having a poem-y moment, and I started writing."
-Aaron Smith

About Aaron Smith
Aaron Smith is the author of "Appetite" (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012). He teaches at Lesley University and lives in Malden, Mass.

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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Aaron Smith. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate