You sign up. You get a poem. Once a week. Look here.
The cranberry supplements won’t save you, or that prebiotic lotion poised on the tile edge
of your shower, or a loaf of bread from Mary’s recipe pixelated with dried dill and pink
Himalayan salt. You may stock your fridge with lemons, hold your breath at gas stations,
remove your shoes outside the front door, make a mixed drink with the good bourbon, reconsider the
alkaline diet that made headlines a few years ago, take two walks daily
and genuflect, mentally, toward anything that’s currently, or on the verge of, blossoming.
Nevertheless, a worry will tag along at every outing, carve shadows from the proceedings.
A curdle of concern will wrinkle the skin of your life. There is no cream to iron you out,
no number to count to, no potion to keep the poison away, no lotus pretzel-ly enough
to ward it off. You are alive and somebody loves you. You are safe as you’ve ever been.
[I share Maya Stein's poems occasionally, having asked permission a while back. They lighten up the week.]