I drink too much.
I’m losing weight, I don’t look well.
A fleeting quip about going from jaundiced to Jon dust makes me smile in the mirror and
I am alone with my recycling--with the bottles that stack up on shelves like books
Each with 750-1000ml of whispered prayers, swallowed regret, every murmur in between
I hope will reach across an ocean, translate into a language I don’t speak.
There’s no wind today.
If I exhale hard enough, I can send these gallons of messages across the waves
to a familiar foreign shore where the ghost of a childless woman wanders, waiting.
If I drink enough,
waste away enough,
I can fold her shadow into mine and
tell her I'm sorry for not writing sooner.
Posts
