by A.M. Broadous
October 2021

Every morning feels a spark of
tiny capsules chattering in
a bright orange bottle.

Supercharge me
or just charge me
like a wind-up mouse.

I’ll stop. Start me up again.
Day by day, my body submits to
this cycle of batteries, one always

to replace the other until
the toy breaks or simply
loses muscle memory.

With a gulp of rounded static,
I am an infant learning my
first steps. Tomorrow, I will

forget, but the lightning
in a bottle will attempt the jump-start
while, somewhere in the dark,
the mind shouts,