Wednesday, November 7, 2012

On Not Writing Enough Lately


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.


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