A Series of Arguments

It is hard to explain to my boss that I cannot
take a day off, come back the next
a heroine overtaking a snake or raptor,
that after three years on the same antidepressants
they started to make me sick and that off them, I am
sicker. I cannot argue with the doctor at the urgent care
clinic who says, this should not happen, gives me something
for my stomach, then asks for a half grand.
I haven’t stopped explaining
to my parents, who think survival is a matter of eating
the right animals, that yes, a job is a piece
of luck but it is not the sky, it has nothing to do
with the sky nor its creatures at night. Believe me,
I have not forsaken the world, only I have seen
more of it. There are teeth yes, but my gaze
still catches on the eyes and the coat. Once I saw a woman
perch herself on a street in San Francisco and
through her drunkenness give me directions over and
over and over again for a safe place to wait out the rain. It is strange
to think of anger and find its mark, think
there could be blame in any of this, that
we are not each animals, clawing for our piece
of earth until someone says, you can go home now—
the fight, yes, it has been won.