Linda Jaye Bonafield

Just a fantasy — an illusionary mind
holding notions            of dystonic
jaw—clenched,

Unreal lupus — screaming sacrum shifts,
shattering          skeletal structure       slowly
and skin patches                    sun-baked,
all satiated            by cortisone,
like my mother, inflated and dead
at forty-four.

but not for me because
it is in my bipolar mind:
a quixotic derision
I pretend
with my doctors.                    Blood draws
showing
the nothing
they know.