Saint

by

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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