By Jesse Hilson

During guided meditation
When told to go someplace beautiful
And vivid
you climbed to the moon on a ladder made
Of its own reflections off the stream
The voice had undammed in your mind.

The moods are like a hidden game
With different rules each day
That must be learned in the dark
Through trial and error.
And points do not roll over,
While a new variant is encoded
Each night as you sleep.

The group therapy room is the same
But different combinations of patients
Cycle through each session,
Stones tumbling inside a drum
To be polished.

Each leaf of self-esteem is passed
Around the room so that everyone
In rotation can inscribe one positive
Trait they will observe in you, in the short term.
When it completes its circuit
You’ll see what is written there,
The orthographic variety of the compliments,
The recesses of different depths.
From then on you will be fated to peer
Into everyone’s eyes to catch some
Distant glint of their penmanship
To deduce who wrote the margin note
That can take you out of hyper-mourning,
Who has planted in your heart a nascent seed
Of flirtation—or the hologram of a seed.
Ghost flower.

Who’s next to reset the glitchy cupid-consol
Too unstable (so she said) to traffic love
Between the beacon and the passing craft?
Meanwhile, on the beach, the crab retreats
From the starfish about to be picked apart
And scattered by seagulls, fated to reassemble.

When the hospital releases you, at four pm,
A different shade of worry follows
You the whole two-hour trip home,
Through Ballston Spa to Amsterdam
To Richmondville,
Masquerading as the same devout
Compassionate being of Light.

Jesse Hilson has bipolar disorder. He is a writer and artist living in the Catskills in New York State. He has published four books, including novels, a short story collection, and a poetry collection. He can be found on Instagram at @platelet60 and he has a Substack called Chlorophyll & Hemoglobin. Please follow and subscribe.