“That no one dies of migraine seems to someone deep in an attack as an ambiguous blessing.”
– Joan Didion, “In Bed”

It creeps into the periphery, hovers
like an iridescent ghost, sizzling lines
on the edge of my vision: I know

it’s arrived. The panic sets in deep
in my chest and sinking heart
as the aura progresses, occupies more

of my vision, blurs words and faces. I look
at myself in the mirror, blinking: I am
half the woman I was. I hold out my hand

to see: it appears my fingers are
missing. Tingling begins in a limb
or cheek; sometimes my tongue goes

numb. Checking, I run it over my teeth,
careful not to take out a chunk. It’s too late
for medication now. It will be hours before

I am whole again. The pain begins
slowly then, sneaks behind my eye
like someone pressing their thumb

through the orbital bone. If they haven’t
yet, this is when words, like birds, take
flight. I cannot make sentences make sense

in my mouth or on the page; the words
escape me. I want a cavernous room
in which to rest my body, but I’ve

retreated, too often, to an empty office,
stacking my head on my arms on a desk, or
taught Shakespeare to high school kids,
fumbling over my words, only
to disappear for the finale:
heaving until there is nothing

left. I collapse in bed or reappear,
wiping the corners of my mouth
and tears from my eyes, sweat

on my forehead. The ache remains
into the next day and life calls me
back to her again and again.

---

Ashley Kirkland (she/her) writes in Ohio where she lives with her husband and sons. Her work can be found in Cordella Press, Boats Against the Current, The Citron Review, Naugatuck River Review, ONE ART, HAD, Major7thMagazine, among others. Her chapbook, BRUISED MOTHER, is available from Boats Against the Current. She is a poetry editor for 3Elements Literary Review.

Instagram: @lashleykirklandwriter