And if, on some enchanted evening, I find
my wrist a weight on your last rib, thin vein
of bone
                                         sternum's taut veil,

if then are not you—                             and still,
              retching, then calm
they asked me, I told
                                                       harm her

                            her lustered hair, which hurts
to think of in the tin with needles, no
wet tangles brushed, her still-soft head at rest,
no bruised lips, no cradled phone, no hush
of tongue or spittle wiped from her red mark
of lips unkissed, unwed, unfrowned upon.

Thank God for this transfusion, this

             sweet bourbon's lovely velvet

                          clear shot
             , a wrecking-ball, unscheduled tide

midnight's backward swoon, laughing, blood across
the mirror's image                     red keys

and morning's hated apneatic gasp.

An intravenous vodka drip would solve
the problem: result: a better citizen,
                    , good volunteer,
                                                            kind act.
As is, each shot
                           five hours, my stool
the barmaid knows my name, she must take care
                                , and know me, what I
                    a stare, split-second lack of blur
                                            —and then returns,
                                                 my fill of plans.

The house is dark again and cold, the bills,
red envelopes unopened, tossed with ads
and letters from my mother in a box:
                                                how to keep

when I'm three hours late, she finds me

her standing there, I order battered shrimp

              , wide-eyed, you are very sick

                                                       . I lied.

                           : like holding up a bank
all day alone, astringent sweat

                                         the teller's window

                                                      kneel to hear
its tick. I am the bank. My hostage looks

until my pickup truck, at dusk, drives past
with me inside it,
                                         bars                    .

                                 sews her own costumes

tequila's vibrant buzz
the third, the fourth, thirteen

                              drive home the stripper, try

                          from Taco Bell
                              the driveway, awake
A year later, with kicker heels, across
the street in daylight

            one eye shut against the blurred
curb, parked cars, red light, pedestrian

                         the morning finding Yes,

receipts that prove I did take care to eat


the 12 x 12, the Hourglass

                       spleef beneath the bar


                              a way out
             thirty days
               go back out
                         in these rooms

                         a vet, sniper in vietnam:
When I came to, a gun in my hand, the end
of a twenty-day blackout, end of a run,
I knew. I stopped that day. But listen up,
just because you're sober doesn't mean
it's all gonna be fuckin' wonderful.