Methamphetamine
~after Bob Hicok
Imagine
a horizon stained with blood,
clothes
still warm from the dryer
unfolded
and heaped in piles,
a
holocaust of time traveling selves
happening
every minute without smoke.
Your
husband’s pale face a knuckle
on
the fist of a ghost, working
at
words like a wad of chewing gum.
You
remember the ferris wheel
at
the Barren County fair, those yellow lights
rimming
conjoined ladders that spun
a
galaxy of wants in your ribcage, his stubble
rubbing
your chin raw. His smile
a
haunted piano that played you songs,
now
a crumbling chimney of teeth
set
to grinding aspirin into dust.
Once
he plucked a lily from the hillside
and
threaded it behind your ear,
months
before he turned you into a smurf,
palming
packs of Sudafed from the pharmacy.
You’d
find the bathroom door closed,
the
acrid odor of flame against foil,
cooking
something akin to torment,
a
fish hook on each eyelid, pulling.
Before
he pawned your mother’s rings,
before
his skin seeped with ammonia,
he
liked to warm his hand between your thighs,
to
surprise you with ice on your neck.
There
were nights you’d sit and watch
the
bats swoop in and out of the lamplight,
and
you’d feel like the bat, the moth, the light,
the
blanket of pseudophedrine sweat
clinging
to his skin like dew. He would promise
to
change and you would believe he could,
the
way a child believes reindeer can fly,
that
stars contain the whispers of wishes.
But
there you were, finding your infant boy
asleep
on the floor, dried milk vomit
crusted
to his chest, his body quivering
with
naked cold, indiscernible rock music
blaring
from the bedroom, door closed.
The
night felt like hammer, heavy on one side,
a
train whistle blowing without end,
a
coffin you’d been burying with your hands.
Jay Sizemore was born blue, raised by wolves, and learned to write by translating howls. He doesn't regret his wisdom teeth. He thanks you for your concern. His work can be found here or there, mostly there. Find him at jaysizemore.com, or, if you're a stalker, in Nashville, TN, where he may or may not really exist.
Comments
Post a Comment