do you still love me?

The man who discovered LSD lived to 102.

He was the first to take an acid trip.
His next trip came during a bicycle ride.

I didn’t do anything
so adventurous. I just sat on my college
boyfriend’s couch, 20 years ago.

Psychedelic: mind-manifesting.
Supposedly a mind cure. And surely
my mind’s been fucked for a minute.

You know Bill Wilson, AA founder, tried LSD
when he was already sober. He thought it
might help alcoholics. He said the experience
helped him. I got sober in a bare-knuckled,
tear-filled way: gripping invisible faith
and a touch of whatever the fuck I call
my life—which some wouldn’t call sober
at all. But I say this doesn’t interest me.

LSD scares me now.

Driving on the busiest road in my town
scares me too.

Not being loved scares me most.

Sometimes I wonder: if I had a magic wand,
what would I remove? Not my brain.
Maybe my DNA. My genes. The technology’s
here now: CRISPR, like Rice Krispies—
snap, crackle, pop. We can edit genes.
Which ones would I change?

Gosh, that’s hard to say. How do you pick and choose
like puppies from a litter, knowing what’s left over
will be bagged and drowned in the cold river?
Can I kill what made me—even the parts
as ugly and unwanted as they could be?

Those sparky sparks, the stupid way
I’ve torn myself apart and taped myself together
(packing tape, not duct). Toss me over the railing
into the cold water below. Splash. It’s okay.
I know how to swim, even in a burlap bag.

But you’re in the water with me.
When I change, something between us
changes too.