Poetry

I lie in bed no sleep in sight
More awake with the moon than I was with the sun
The next day closer than the last
Shows that hold no mysteries to me whispering in the background
Craving things that my mind wants
But that my body will regret
Cheddar Chex Mix
Reese’s Cups
A man
The candle’s flame dances in the distance
Releasing a painfully nostalgic aroma
I was once just a woman
I took 45-minute showers
Survived off saltines and ramen
Had nightly meetings with Mary Jane
No side-stepping Lego landmines
Or llamas in pajamas
So now the moon and I
We enjoy the stillness of the night
My time becomes my own
My name is nonexistent
My space is substantial
My peace is protected
Tomorrow I may be slow to wake
Tonight, I have no regrets
I smile
I laugh
I remember
I hope
For just 10 more minutes
Or maybe 15
Before I know it
Tomorrow will come all too soon
And this time I have
It can only come with the moon

A shack where a house once stood
Shingles that hang on by a thread
This was once a home

Built by muscled men
Carefully crafted to withstand anything
Except time

A porch where many once sat
Is now a stiff wind from extinction
Rusted rockers turned from green to brown

A screen door shredded
From temple to tetanus

The roof appears to cave
While the foundation holds firm
A home that once slept six

A time capsule
Full of firsts and lasts
Nothing left but ruins and

Memories clinging to the insides
The house is empty
But the home still stands

             Sobriety: Day 0

I don’t know why this time was different
other than time, air & light that it is, was
filling less of me. For fifteen years I was a tick
that if pulled would pucker the skin before
the neck severed, head still buried and sucking
a last second or two, unaware the wine-red
blood had nowhere to go.

The Rioja In the back of the pantry had aged
since our first year of marriage. Like equity
and intimacy, so easy early on, we’d kept it wrong.
So when we opened the vinegar it had become,
you stopped at a glass while I finished the bottle.
On principle, I told myself. Tomorrow
I’m quitting. I’m quitting tomorrow.

              Sobriety: Day 77

My doctor holds a vial of my blood up
to the light like a kaleidoscope, turns it,
shakes it, then hides it in his fist.
He makes a finger gun with the other hand
and shoots it. When he opens his fist,
it’s gone. He pulls it back into the world
from behind my ear and pours my blood
into a dutch oven which he bakes for
a few minutes while he waves a divining rod
around my torso. “How’s your spam
filter?” he asks. I put my hand on my side.
“I can’t really feel it anymore.”
The timer dings and when he lifts the lid
the whole clinic smells like goulash.
“Your late autumn light has stabilized,”
he says, my improvements perplexing him.
I inform him that I no longer partake.
“Ah, that would do it,” he says.
“You should also limit your intake of flattery.”
Not really a problem, I tell him.
“I can order a CT of your lusts if you want
but check with your insurance first.”
Here, he turns serious and meets my eyes
with a practiced air of pity.
“I’m afraid this means you’re probably
going to live quite awhile longer.”
I tell him I understand and begin rehearsing
how I’m going to break this to my family.

              Sobriety: Day 84

Driving home from outpatient, a cry from nowhere pierces the hum. It’s my own gut-shot voice trailing blood across the windshield & dash, but I’m still surprised by it. Anxiety controls my sounds and movements like a cordyceps fungus controls an insect. More cries rush the hole made by the first so my throat becomes a fountain filling the cabin with locusts that die in mid-air and pile into drifts on the passenger seat. I’m alone, but I imagine someone watching my breakdown like I was a character in a show, because I can’t seem to process my emotions without involving someone else. This observer is more human-scale than twenty years ago when my wailing would have been prayer. I think the shape of these sounds is holier. Not supplication so much as islands erupting from an ocean. They will one day be habitat. The maps will need changing.

              Sobriety: Day 90

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.