The Mind Is Its Own Place

Ann Townsend

Mated and unmated,

starlings swarm the willow

with their devotions

until the tree roils

and sways, wing-beats

sounding the torrent

through which they swim.

Dopamine, paroxetine,

an injection of adrenaline

into the bloodstream:

these deliver the dissident

fuel I crave for the mind's

pleasure, and for its pain.

Call it one song indispensable

to trouble the branching

arteries. The willow divinates

toward water, switching

in the breeze; it grazes

the edge but cannot

rest there. My fingertips

pressed against my temples:

ten points of sensation,

a vaulted cage where

starlings congregate

to rustle their chaos,

their alphabet blown to bits

in the wind's rush.

Yes, you heard me.

Like an aviary, Plato said,

the mind is full of birds.