Borscht

my  mind,  after  four  days  has 
become  ripe  for  insurrection. 
this  migraine  has  the  measure 
of  me.  it  bends  and  contorts  me 
like  the  swoop  and  cradle  of  the 
spoon  i  am  holding  -filled  with
borscht  the  color  of  a  beet  blood 
sea,  a  tone  deaf  heart  beating 
wildly  and  off  key
this  soup,  like  nadeyat'sya  (надеяться)  or 
hooys  (հույս)  eaten  by  the  cursed 
and  the  ruthless  alike
       and  it  says:
           what  if  the  only  thing 
you  are  good  at  is
        anguish?