call him cocaine baby
a man with a woman’s name
and a certain body, blonde,
they must have loved him out there in Mexico.
your sister, Bobby, is pregnant by a man
who turned crystal meth into her hobby,
like that restraining order would hold him back
from the dine and dash of relations and relatives
you tried paying for twenty seven dinners at Manny’s
it was supposed to make blow jobs okay
because we didn’t know
how a man named Mark, visiting a Bank-One
had lost his credit card that day.
things like needles and sex
make you do crazy things in March,
one more day to Saint Patty’s Day
and you never believed in anything
but the Day of the Dead.
so you wrestled with the locals on the beach
like friends, you fed them pork loins and water
like they’ve never eaten, you saved me from
a diarrhea morning and an award smile
but peanut butter and jelly won’t make up for
a life lost from losing.
you say, sometimes, you quit that shit months ago
and rehab was 30,000 bucks and Jessica
and Nick snorted it with you in your Honda,
but I don’t believe that
your car smells like weed
it’s the only thing you have left
and you just excuse yourself, whispering
you saw God at twelve,
and how I had nothing to do with that
I am a truth-teller. A healer. A sobriety warrior. A love junkie. I have found my path to healing and I am on it, learning as I go. I write poetry. I own a pig. I believe in kindness and lollipops and singing really, really loud even when you have the most awful voice in the world.
I believe in being authentic, vulnerable, real. I believe in being yourself. And that is what I have come here to do. I have come here to be me and share my fears and my successes and my pitfalls and my courage.