Prodrome

The jaw goes first.

Not the brain—the brain is still

in the meeting, holding the pen,

still nodding, still.

Someone's tone went careful and flat.

My hands went cold.

I was in the stairwell

six minutes later, both palms

against painted cinder block,

looking for something that stays put.

The fluorescent light was doing

something to the back of my eyes. What,

I couldn't tell you.

I'm angry that it gets there first.

That the jaw locks, the hands drain,

the body files its paperwork

before I've even read the room.