Meds by Ganaway

Meds Erin Ganaway They ask how I sleep and I say: like summer preserves, wintering behind a wall of paneled doors, under quilted glass I lay dormant as okra, blackberries and cornhusks, dreams scattered like sunflower seeds resisting packed clay before a farmer takes to tilling, skunk striped and pursed tight to memory. I wake to splintered limbs, a still-born body laced in webs. They say for now sanity is this preservation cupboard, this flayed out waiting for reason to surface like the pressed lips of rain-soaked crops. Previously published in Third Coast, 2011