They Laughed Themselves Sick
“What did you take? Did you ever have any bad trips?”
the psychiatrist asked. “Acid and mescaline, and, no,
I never had a bad trip,” she said. This made her think
about the night she dropped acid
when she was 17 and her older sister
went to the hospital to have a baby
that no one but her knew
her sister was going to have.
She remembered going home
around 3:00 a.m. thinking
she was in the clear, because
surely everyone would know by then.
But her parents were waiting.
So she just told them her sister
was having a baby. Their faces fell
on the floor, and they went to their knees
to find them. She laughed out loud,
and the psychiatrist looked puzzled, because
she was supposed to be depressed.
She laughed some more when she remembered
how she told her brother their sister got raped
and carried a baby to term under their parents' noses,
and then they made her keep the baby.
She and her brother laughed themselves sick.
Muriel Zeller
Muriel’s poetry has appeared in a variety of publications including Camas: The Nature of the West, Plainsongs, Slipstream, Manzanita: Poetry and Prose of the Mother Lode and Sierra, The Awakenings Review, and CutThroat. Her work has been anthologized, most notably in Over This Soil: An Anthology of World Farm Poems. Slipstream nominated me for a Pushcart Prize in 2004, and the nominated poem appeared on Verse Daily. She is a 2006 recipient of the 8 Seconds Award from cowboypoetry.com. Her chapbook, Red Harvest, was published by Poet’s Corner Press in 2002.