^{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.    

Within me, the sipped, iced bourbon enacts
the sense of a slow, April rain
blurring and nurturing a landscape.
Decades I’ve been pipe-dreaming of finding
a life as concise as a wartime telegram.
Ultimately, I’ve ended up compiling
an archive of miscommunication
and the faded receipts of secondary disgraces.
In third grade, a friend’s uncle stole the two dollars
from my pocket as I slept on their couch,
and later he must’ve hurried into the night
toward a flat in the nearby building
where a newly minted narcotic promised
to evict the misgivings from all riled souls.
I told no one of the theft, letting the emptiness
become my government, my friend’s
mother counting her food stamps while we walked
the late-morning blocks to a bustling grocery,
within which she eventually smacked
the hopeful face of my friend as he reached
again for too costly a thing.

The first time I found my brother 
overdosed, he looked holy. A thing
not to be touched. Yellow halo of last 
night’s dinner. His skin, blanched blue
fresco: Patron Saint of Smack. A cop,
flustered, tugged up his shorts, plunged
a needle into a pale thigh. He hissed 
awake like a soda can. The paramedic 
spoke softly in his ear like a lover, 
asked him what color yellow and red 
make. What is the difference between 
a lake and a river? In the corner
I whittle that used syringe into
an instrument only I can play.