You’re told it's a benchmark. Like a toddler pointing. Practically developmental. A sign the brain is knitting together, picking back up where it left off. “Maturing stops at the point of addiction,” as if the brain had been caught and rooted in place in a game of freeze tag, waiting for someone to crawl through its legs. You shouldn’t be so offended. You’re the one who would look at your wife and tell her with solemn sincerity, uncapped marker still in your hand, that you didn’t draw on the wall. And like a child, you need recognition so you text “90 days!” and when she texts back a single emoji—meager scrap for the gaunt street dog your soul has become—the anger you’ve nursed in dark rooms burns its way out. You complain that no one is praising you for what you’re not doing, and are caught off balance when she gives it right back, telling you how long she’s been running, circling your unresponsive statue, watching for any chance to unfreeze you.
Chad Rutter is an emerging poet originally from rural Nebraska now residing in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received a BFA from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design and an MFA from the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, both in visual art. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Right Hand Pointing.