Sarah Nichols

A POEM FOR DOPE SICKNESS

After the first time, I
can’t pretend that I don’t know.

The twenty-four hour flu lasts days.
Four, maybe. I sweat and
shake them out in midsummer,

watching an apartment thermostat

stick at 85.

I gag on chicken soup and
saltines, those drug store
balms. A sleeve of Dramamine disappears in a day.

I stop looking at the calendar. Instead,

I troll past my grandmother’s desk,
a pill hungry shark. I am all eyeball and

grey skin, watching the prescription
slip on shore. Do not fill until

July____, 2012, 45 count.

I turn cannibal desperate at night, gnawing at
my bones, making promises for the next time.

I will not run out. I will not get sick. I will take

one

less.