Saint
I never asked for a refill
but the sky is full of the usual
dark again. The only good bulb
in the house is out as if the only
good bulb is an out bulb. Waiting
for this hangover to pass is like playing
dead: lying on your back & praying
as the ghost of a grisly bear leans
over & sniffs at you. I’m not saying
that I’m lonely, knowing in the end,
the quiet in my chest always proves
itself a companion, of sorts. I find
no salvation in tipped over scotch
bottles. I don’t claim sainthood in
my puke-stained pajamas, nor do I preach
sensible adulting when clearly, I’m the one
who cried at the kitchen sink, having
opened my thumb with a sliver
of broken glass as I tried to rinse
tonight’s aftermath. Somewhere
out there, a bat shrieks like a princess
who pricked her finger on a spindle.
The junkie tree out my window
shivers, wanting to be clean
from the wind it couldn’t get
enough of. & as I panther through
the house like the night itself, I catch
a glimpse of my own face in the black ice
of the TV screen staring back – not old, yet
not exactly young – & lift a hand
to stroke a cheek where the years
nestle in thin lines, knowing
when morning comes, the sun
will reach through the shutters
& smooth out each crease
with the heel of her palm.
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