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