Hear you’re in town.
Lie awake, thumb something
quick. Play with syntax,
tone, blame
but it’s not right. See
your lovely face, with vomit
falling softly off one cheek,
your red nose the telltale
sign of sliding off
your slippery wagon.
Settle on hey. dinner
if u promise
not 2 pass out
before dessert.
Later, at a quiet table
near the back
you drop off
into your 80 proof stupor.
I pull out a folded-
up poem
written in microscopic
purple gel pen
which I’ve carried,
along with other
fragile artifacts:
the Nina Simone
mix-tape,
a small wax Buddha
and my love,
which has flown off
like a flop-winged bat
into the night.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 6.
Emily Kerlin studied Creative Writing at Antioch College. She has been teaching the difference between “chicken” and “kitchen” to English Language Learners in public schools for the last 10 years. She lives in Urbana, Illinois with her husband, four teenagers and a geriatric brown dog.See all items about Emily Kerlin
