Anxiety Popcicles

I had to stop eating these popsicles we buy.

Blueberry or

blue-raspberry, hereby denying myself

the comfortingly cool and saccharine sweetness.

The drumbeat in my brain; Focus! Focus

On this inane treat, quick!

I could eat two in a row

or three, depending on

how long he is gone.

The chill is a shiver down my spine,

behind me sneakily distracting me.

He isn’t far, but distance isn’t the the point

and neither is the fact that

our souls are joined at the hip, so

don’t feed me that new age-y bullshit.

Loss can infect, like a threatening disease,

appeasing my demons and

planting lethal seeds. Growing virulent plants,

knocking me on my knees.

What’s worse is the shame I feel

for cloaking myself in this needless ordeal.

The judgement I anticipate, it’s debilitating weight,

pulling me lower and fading my glow.

I let it, I know. And so

I had to stop eating these popsicles we buy.

I am not going to be my own fall guy

in this rivalry with my anxiety,

this unintended lie.


by Shannon Mastromonico

SHANNON MASTROMONICO was born and raised in Montreal. She has been writing for almost thirty years.

Her poetry has been published in literary journals such as Montréal Writes, Persephone's Daughters, Snapdragon Journal, Ink & Voices and her 2018 self published chapbook.

Currently, she is working on her first full length novel and a poetic graphic novel.

She lives with her husband and kitty, Calliope in the Laurentian Mountains.


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