Slow Drift Minutes

by Steven J. Serafiani

I stare off sometimes,
call it a slow drift or even
a disconnect-
anxiety pressed has worsened
and it worries.
Tale,
cooked with my sister last night
she had me chop onions, green bell, garlic and
celery.
I finished the first onion,
looked down and don’t remember cutting it.
Slow drift man
my body lulled, I remember that and
my mind antithesis of stew about to be
prepared.
I don’t mince words,
no exaggeration needed cause
I don’t know where I was for minutes and
I have become seasoned in this.
They, the certified journal contributers, have terms;
depersonalization. derealization.
The most maddening part was not the onion,
fuck the onion,
but the acute sense of not being real and thus
my sister was not my sister,
family didn’t exist-
lost all sense of person.
29 years disposed of, just
like the cutting board remnants into switch on
sink grind pulp to drain to nothingness.

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