Low
I.
In a meeting once, when I was still new, someone said
my real name:
Low
I incubated in its
darkness, breath struggling
to reach the surface.
II.
I could tell you that I fought
that I resisted those
medicinal kisses. But I wanted them. I loved nothing
so much as the sound of my
blood, sleeping, its voice
so small, poppy-fragile,
claiming me for
another night.
III.
My sponsor tells me not to talk for the
first thirty days.
Instead, I hug the lost and
make coffee, acid black.
Over and Over I hear
“I should be dead by now.”
I thought I was the only one
who could turn the death switch
off and on.
We’re all Houdini in
these rooms.
We’ve all escaped.
No one knows how.
I.
In a meeting once, when I was still new, someone said
my real name:
Low
I incubated in its
darkness, breath struggling
to reach the surface.
II.
I could tell you that I fought
that I resisted those
medicinal kisses. But I wanted them. I loved nothing
so much as the sound of my
blood, sleeping, its voice
so small, poppy-fragile,
claiming me for
another night.
III.
My sponsor tells me not to talk for the
first thirty days.
Instead, I hug the lost and
make coffee, acid black.
Over and Over I hear
“I should be dead by now.”
I thought I was the only one
who could turn the death switch
off and on.
We’re all Houdini in
these rooms.
We’ve all escaped.
No one knows how.
There is No Pink Cloud
For the first year, I try to
purge myself of want. I
mutter prayers in the dark,
slough off skin, folding myself,
intricate, hearing the news
of new cars or new lovers, hearing
I got everything back or I have so much to lose,
forgetting those dangerous births of
themselves. I rub the
hurt in me until it’s raw. It gives me no
language, no
metamorphosis. Only small promises that I do not ask if I
want them to come true.
For the first year, I try to
purge myself of want. I
mutter prayers in the dark,
slough off skin, folding myself,
intricate, hearing the news
of new cars or new lovers, hearing
I got everything back or I have so much to lose,
forgetting those dangerous births of
themselves. I rub the
hurt in me until it’s raw. It gives me no
language, no
metamorphosis. Only small promises that I do not ask if I
want them to come true.
Even a Doorknob Can Be Your Higher Power
“Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of god as we understood him.”
---The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions of
Alcoholics Anonymous
I confess: I
still do not
understand
god. I watch for signs and prophets
but find instead
burnt coffee grounds
and addicts calling whatever this thing is
that holds us here
god.
I have no name for it. I yell at a lamp and weep
at a cobweb high on my bedroom wall.
Prayers fade in and out like a signal from a dead planet.
I want a burning bush. A flood.
These things are too easy.
“Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of god as we understood him.”
---The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions of
Alcoholics Anonymous
I confess: I
still do not
understand
god. I watch for signs and prophets
but find instead
burnt coffee grounds
and addicts calling whatever this thing is
that holds us here
god.
I have no name for it. I yell at a lamp and weep
at a cobweb high on my bedroom wall.
Prayers fade in and out like a signal from a dead planet.
I want a burning bush. A flood.
These things are too easy.
Sarah Nichols lives and writes in Connecticut. She is the author of eight chapbooks, including She May Be a Saint (Porkbelly Press, 2019.) Her work has also appeared in Kanstellation Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and Rogue Agent.