BY MAX GILLETTE
Kitchen
1. The mug’s chipped rim wasn’t offensive, but estimating my atrophy is easier with another wreckage to stand in.
2. For two days, I walk through the fragments of my disorder. On the third day, I sweep.
3. I try to believe in God. I think God is other people organizing oblivion into love. I want to believe in people.
4. My sister sends me another mug and asks about a second opinion.
5. I wash the new mug by hand and pretend my fingers are numbed only by the water’s chill.
6. Bottles of white pills crowd the back of the medicine cabinet. I’ve stopped going to the appointments. I don’t want to know where I stand.
Still Life with Addict at the Window
days // you do not // miss // being sober // the sun //
a milky eye // your body // hungry // but never // wanting
to feed // except on // air // you are air hungry //
that is // what they call it // when your // chest // drags
and stutters // like an engine // in January // lungs stalling // under
numb skin // you can’t feel // your bed or // the body // on it // gasping //
above you // the curtains // are pink polyester // lungs //
swelling easy // in the wind // mocking your // slow // progress //
beyond the curtains // sky // the pale sun // and geese //
their indifferent migration // through all our breath
