This beautiful poem by Emily Nicol is available in our Pills pamphlet

Fluoxetine/Bubonic/Emily Nicol

I wish I could ask

the crow

doctors,
black, waxed, and beaked,
to cure the weeping.
Life is so sore, and sour.
And if anything
(while everything) is happening

in this cavern

head of mine,
I’d like to peer in
to ease pressure,
to sift and filter through

dead weight of dead

thoughts.
Healers were wielders of flame,
hands smeared in ash.
Mine, yet to hold a blaze,

warm a black

box instead.