after Marie Howe
Last night, the boy—
you’ve already grieved—crawls
through the window
of who you once were
& whispers,
Listen. Listen.
Ten years off heroin and he’s still here.
You say no—not
again—so it feels like a power
against your will
holds the flame
under the bent spoon
& pulls closer your last breath
of good sense.
A sweet sweet hum begins as he stops
the constellation bleeding from the pale crook
of your arm with a kiss
knowing you would oblige this
oblivion this strange song
growing loud & lovely louder & lovelier
til’ you’re nothing
but the warmth
of life’s slippery goodnight—
hovering above yourself
you find the boy splashing
through puddles,
it’s charming the way he calls you
to the edge—
Again! he says, taking your hand,
but you beg him to stop.
Copyright © 2024 by Bernardo Wade. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 12, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
the last bump was eight years ago i pray the man who sold it to me
goes to my heaven i want him clean i want to kiss him
yes yes i’ve been alive for centuries trespassing through the yuck
of every universe i’m still here i’m not here yet why even ask
such a tired question the body sheds the body in its sleep
time is the only thing that passes the more of it you’ve lost
the more of it you’ve gained
Copyright © 2024 by Ilyus Evander. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 19, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
(Miles Davis, 1926–1991)
This is what heroin must feel like—
Miles Davis exacting
his way through “Autumn Leaves”—
pretty and cold, a slowly spreading frost
along synapses and veins,
mapping interstellar darkness
one blue note at a time. Sometimes you could hear
him thinking through the changes
like he was hunting himself, relentless
and without mercy, then a burst of blue
flame, squeezing the Harmon mute like a man screaming
from the bottom of a mine shaft—
but however brightly the darkness glows,
it is still darkness, and Miles was a blackbird
on a field of snow, beautiful, distant, quiet—
and however many steps you take to meet him he flies
ten more feet away.
Copyright © 2015 by Anthony Walton. This poem was first printed in Black Renaissance Noire, Vol. 15, Issue 1 (Spring–Summer 2015). Used with the permission of the author.
You lead me to that place
where addicts give themselves up.
I have given myself to the linear to
the straight line.
No longer turning.
No longer considering
that which could
have occurred.
I’m a rocket blasting into
the unknowable.
No more pondering forever
heavy forever sick with it.
No longer booming fados.
Or sitting in rooms with suicidal
guitarists plucking sunrise.
No more addiction among addicts.
I’m confessing this to them.
They are moaning.
They are asking me to leave.
I leave you here.
From Aurora Americana (Princeton University Press, 2023) by Myronn Hardy. Copyright © 2023 by Myronn Hardy. Used with the permission of the publisher.
The subject of lesbianism is very ordinary […]
— Judy Grahn
in darkness of March’s midnight she is eyes:
moon rays rebound lake ripples to eggplant purple walls
your hands find her body face lies upturned, opened
smaller than weeks prior. She knows you prefer protruding hip bones,
feels hungered for by you, not memory of the boy, her brother
diaphragms guttural groan, cold in body bag not on pleated comforter,
you’ve described your favorite body your type as “heroin skinny”
she knows you like the ripples of her torso but before you knew her brother
also concave trajectory to pelvis bones as drug addict,
loving you is an argument with the impossible.
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Cooper. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 4, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
Note the diameter of your invisible ink tattoo as if it hides
a crossword hint like “Clueless dope for dopamine”
But not because your inner twin sold all your Rap albums
for a white powder that made you feel touched by God, yet
left a trail like Comet. Note how a certain name trails off with
the number e to perhaps signify their constant interest in
a continuously growing silence. Does an infinite series
of silences imply addition or addiction? In one language
you understand, pegadu means touching and begins with
the letter P. Like Pi is filled with touches of fruitful irrationality,
and may hide a circle’s Private Key. Note how rumors of you
crossing the street to sneak rides on fire trucks are irrational, but
not because you’re vain or became a pyromaniac. The circumference
of urinal cakes may be solved with Pi or dissolved with pee.
Is it irrational that you looped like an extension cord while trying
to solve for the value of P, but got beat like a bowl of egg yolks
for wetting the bed? During the beating was their mouth agápē or
agape? Has it not been proven that trauma only feels transcendental
due to the ratio of the diameter which severs us to the circumference
which makes us a whole? Being born under the Sign of the Asp might
be key, but note that a Volta can turn in currents of a Ghanaian river
or in currents alternating like a weathervane until any cryptic tattoo
could simply signify who held you down and touched you, but also
told you to hold it forever because their love was like the Holy Ghost.
Copyright © 2022 by Joel Dias-Porter. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 3, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.