tempo
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.
“The saying goes ‘everyday is a new day.’ When in recovery from addiction, this can feel less true. Nothing truly ends—its existence simply moves from the present to the past. Each day becomes yesterday. My desire to relapse is always in competition with my need to stay sober; the only thing that changes is the date. This poem was originally drafted in the Undercurrent Workshop series, facilitated by Desireé Dallagiacomo.”
—Ilyus Evander
Ilyus Evander
Ilyus Evander is a queer, disabled poet and the author of Heavier Than Wait (Game Over Books, 2020). They are an educator and live in Providence.