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by Louise Glasscoe

The bottle on my desk marked 'Potion' winked.
Would I thud my strung words?
Would I disappear particles?
Would the peaks of my nerves flatten?
Would my affect be pummelled?
Would I disintegrate, reintegrate,
would I be numerically one,
my dialogue become rhetoric?
I was urged to overdose, feel the effect of total unity:
I would be Ireland without sharp north;
I would slip into a subtext of no voice,
no more playbacks, repetitions, conversations,
ceasefires. peace talks, recriminations.
I would not hear myself .
Like an air balloon over the surface I would bubble,
I would cut clean away, free fall,
my space would be the millennium dome
and my reunion: a dog's bone.