poem
Volume 30, Number 2

Heroin

You are a four-year-old,
cold and wet, shivering, 
scared, hungry.
 
Your mother brings you in
and wraps you in a towel,
warm and fresh from the dryer. 
 
She takes you on her lap and
rocks and sings to you. 
 
You lift your head from her 
chest, just for a moment, 
to see her smile.
 
You sink and sleep and 
your breathing slows
and soon you no longer 
need to breathe.


—Dale Wisely