migraine triggers
Glennys Egan
It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, you say. Fingertips
pressed to temples, I already know. Some psychic
condition I’ve been gifted, I feel the pressure
mounting: it’s there behind my brow, at the base of
my skull, in the way you hesitate when I tell you
that I love you for the very first time. Shimmering
naked and prodromic, you are shrouded in aura and
too embarrassed to look me in the eye. With every
pulse my regret grows louder, a bitter cacophony in
my aching head. The air between us grows thick
with what you cannot say and I shiver in the
heat. When the barometer reads ten-twenty-two
the humidity finally breaks: you call to explain that
the shampoo I bought to leave in your shower makes
you feel sick, forecasting an end you’d rather not
wait to weather. So I take an Advil. I stay in
bed. I keep the lights off and my eyes closed.
Why not, when I’m alone and I can tell that
it’s supposed to rain?
Raised in the Canadian prairies, Glennys Egan writes poetry in Ottawa, Canada, where she works for the government like everyone else. Her work has appeared in Taco Bell Quarterly, Capsule Stories, Selcouth Station and several other lovely places. You can find her and her dog, Boris, online at @gleegz.