I lied when I said he’d been clean for a year.
It made a better story:
Addict resisting the call of meth,
riding the wave when the desire hit,
how big he felt—and bigger.
Then suddenly, dead in the shower.
Did water trickle from the shower head
onto his naked body?
I’m cold, his last thoughts,
This time I’ve done it,
or did his heart just stop?

The furniture smashed,
beds torn from the wall
in a double queen room
of that worn Beach Motel.
The coroner hands me a paper bag:
a forged check, a crumpled dollar bill,
placed delicately on top of his dirty clothes.
Outside, I press his jeans to my nose,
inhale his sour smell.

Third August soon, dreaded month—
too long not to touch.
I would have found him
if he were anywhere on earth.
Once our sailboat ground to a halt,
balanced on an invisible rock,
“It’s OK, Mama, I’ll get rope.”
Suddenly, he jumped,
waded to shore in muck—
his chance to be my hero.

Kayaking on Spy Pond,
rushing to return the rental to the dock,
dipping the blade in, then out.
Quiet except for the shaking aspens,
except for the hum of traffic I can’t see
behind the rocks and trees.
All that he’s missed:
this sunny day.

Agreed: too many
to count; we all say it.
With addict children,
we can’t fathom
the appeal, the craving.

Too lenient: it’s pity,
bargaining on that borrowed cell—
a kind stranger, waiting.
Or at least that’s what you tell me.
Okay, I’ll send you fifty.

No to the apartment, to the yellow Mustang,
no to my soft voice, my regard.
But I’m hungry.
No money when you are using,
just hard love.

I should have known,
I should have run to my car,
pretending that night drives,
suspension bridges that go on and on,
would never stop me.

Worried or grieving—
If that’s the choice,
I will lie awake at night,
Beg strangers for help,
Bore friends with my story,
Empty my savings.

Take my enjoyment,
Deny me deep breaths and comfort,
Block orange sunsets,
Wake me with a thumping chest,
Fear stalking me like a phantom.
I’ll take that.

Speed-walking around the marina,
Kayaking against wind and current,
Life N Death:
That’s what he tattooed on his chest.
Every letter ten bucks—
He had exactly a hundred.

Just let me lean against him,
Feel that heart beating.