Compass

A compass spins in my head,

seldom pointing north.

The red keeps pricking me behind the eyes, my jaw.

As I paint, I trace its metal sheath, tender.

Engraved by the apprentice,

loops of seaside daisies suffocated by overgrown buffalo

scratch its surface.

Why does it keep spinning?

60mg of duloxetine to slow it down,

Though it keeps whirling.

I wonder if you have a broken compass too.

Perhaps it's covered in my great grandmother’s poetry.

I wonder if yours points north,

or keeps spinning,

spinning, spinning.