Escitalopram

Some scientists don’t believe in free will. The physics of it mainly.

Our brains lighting up before thoughts even occur seems like maybe they are sent by a programmer, like maybe we are not choosing much of anything, just puppets of our biology.

Some poets use the word meat to describe the body. The muscle of it. These sacks of matter swung onto blocks, willing to be consumed. Tendons springing up from the blade, hunks of knowing

sliced away as we kneel at the altar for a sip of salvation. I don’t know what serotonin really is. I think it is a summer beverage.

Like lemonade with little bits of pulp sloshing in the pitcher as the kids squeal in the sprinkler. Or maybe it’s a milky cocktail, a liqueur stirred into cold coffee to smooth the edges of last night’s mess.

If I get to choose how much summer my brain gets, then I will take every park swing. I’ll take long breaks from being graded. I’ll load up on strappy dresses and croaking locusts, sling sausages on the grill, trace the imprints of picnic benches in my thigh. 

If I am just a meal for the earth, an algorithm of desire, a fountain of unfortunate emotions, some speck of sad hunger unfurling from the pond, then give me whatever it takes to be okay about that,

let me delight in my god-soaked shell, this fresh slab of hope.