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 ...
Like the title says.