The Smell of Nightshade

by George Korolog

I stirred the petals of nightshade
into my morning tea,
watched them bleed purple secrets
across the rim, like a promise
or a dare.

The steam curled like voices,
not mine, not yours,
but someone buried in the afterlife
between impulse and dream.
Their laughter had edges.
I drank anyway.

Insanity isn’t descent.
It’s a dance
with a partner who always leads,
always dips you too far
but never lets you fall.
Until you do.

I kept a journal of my hallucinations.
pages filled with spiders
that spelled our apologies
I didn’t write.
The ink turned into vines.

The vines choked reason.
My father said nightshade
was for sorcerers.
My mother said I was one.
The doctor sang paranoia
like a lullaby.

But I said that
the poison is the cure,
and madness,
a garden where
every bloom
remembers your name.

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George Korolog is a San Francisco Bay Area poet. His poetry is known for its psychological depth, lyrical precision, and emotional intensity. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, his work has appeared in the Los Angeles Review, The Journal of Modern Poetry, The Southern Indiana Review, Pithead Chapel, and over 50 other literary magazines. He has two books of published poetry: Collapsing Outside the Box by Aldrich Press and Raw String by Finishing Line Press.