The Meadow 29 I miss your bright eyes. The riptide from the fifth of a gallon a day floods the road of good intentions. Its ebb leaves tide pools of anxiety and depression ripening in a sour stomach. Each morning’s hangover brings the pounding of relentless reality, the ever present eternal goddam now. Last night’s shame haloes her head in hangover vises. She pukes. Starts the hands-and-knees search party for dimes or quarters or pennies for a half-pint of mercy. She ignores the snorse of an anonymous cowboy under a throw and the spray of clothes. She wipes withdrawal’s sweat from her face, swipes at the brain fog. The riptide created by her moons leaves an empty curse. She flings the empty purse of promises into the furthest corners of cobweb resolve, another tourist attraction. When the new moon slides between sun and earth, the eclipse covers her soul like a shawl. She peers into the silvered glass of the detox bathroom mirror, where a stranger greets her. A shadow of comfort arises when she strokes her new moon, colored and frozen on her neck.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==