They watch me from aquariums of normalcy,
faces pressed against spotless glass. I swim
in waters they’ve never tasted—sometimes mercury,
sometimes honey. Televisions grow from my fingertips
broadcasting weather patterns from extinct planets. They call it
disorder.
I call it the universe breathing through my bones
At the pharmacy, orange bottles rattle
like tiny maracas. The pharmacist’s eyes
slide sideways when I approach. As if madness
might leak from my pores, contaminate
the vitamin display, the greeting cards, the floor where
children stand.
When I’m flying, the world below me thinks
I’ve lost my tether. Truth is, I’ve found
a different gravity. My blood turns to stardust,
my words to prophecy. I could build cathedrals
with my bare hands, decode the language of crows,
rewrite the periodic table with elements
they haven’t discovered yet.
Then the crash—a thousand-pound suit
of medieval armor. My shadow weighs more
than my body, drags behind me like a wedding dress
made of tombstones. Each step an argument
against continuing. The checkout clerk asks
how are you today? and doesn’t understand
why tears suddenly flood the conveyor belt,
turning into tiny glass fish that swim between
cereal boxes.
My doctor said: balance. As if I am a seesaw
that just needs proper calibration. As if
the earth doesn’t tilt on its axis
in perfect imbalance.
At dinner parties, they serve me
careful conversation, pre-chewed topics
on silver platters lined with eggshells.
Forks turn to tuning forks in my hands,
humming frequencies only bats can interpret.
They treat my brain like unexploded ordnance,
something to be cordoned off, approached
with specialized equipment.
Sometimes I see others like me. We recognize
each other by the weather patterns in our eyes—
the strange barometric pressure of being
simultaneously too much and not enough.
We nod across crowded rooms.
I am not your cautionary tale.
I am not the before picture in your pharmaceutical ad.
I am not the punchline to your joke about crazy.
I am tidal. I am lunar.
I am storm and also perfect stillness.
My mind is not broken:
It simply knows a language
your dictionaries have no
words for
Renier Palland is an American/South African poet, sociologist, trauma survivor and Bipolar Disorder fighter. Holding dual citizenship, he has worked in war zones, including his current work in Gaza, where he bears witness to the unrelenting human cost of conflict. His poetry has been published in leading journals, and his novel War Game was named “Book of the Year.” His upcoming poetry collection, We Still Exist, channels the raw power of survival, demanding that readers face the violence and suffering the world prefers to ignore. The poet never forgets