Recovery. A Nonfiction.
Left arm bound by the Bible belt stretched
thin between his teeth, stripped skeletal
in the closet plunging flagpoles into any land
left in his skin. He says,
Dylan I snuck into your bed.
You were blacked out I did things. And I said
I couldn’t talk without his dad’s southern drawl
scratching faggot at the back of my throat.
The next time we spoke, it was not about the breaking
the entering. I told him I was working the fourth step,
he said: That’s the relapse step.
One year sober I get a call from a past flame
extinguished with piss. She says,
Dylan do you remember?
You were every evil you did things.
And I listened
to hear all the pillage in my footprints.
I’m still afraid of locked doors, she said.
Still, I miss the muted sounds of blackouts.
I miss the world I never knew I lived.