Sober
You are now seventeen months sober, three months
Before that, two hundred and thirty five,
And the sobriety suits you well, like a sacramental gown
pressed white as your ass, a cross loose upon your neck,
O how they hated you for tightening hers,
O how they’d hang you for tightening his,
How right that the mouth’s now shut, “No cheap wine please,”
Ah, you think there’s ease in double fisting, you slut,
It’s humbling, lie that it’s modesty,
Even when there’s no limit, no line too far to cross,
There’s irony somewhere there, but not in the sex,
But also in the sex, how utterly confusing,
You never did learn how to take it well, the hard stuff,
It’s tough really, an alcoholic’s nightmare,
Not really knowing how to order, recite the terrors
Of a hangover and pretend you don’t want that sip anymore,
You look at her and to drink you must become a whore,
And you look at him and rather you must stop
Drop and roll, only to have your head set ablaze
And twig arms bound to your sides, the bundle’s stifling
But you burn well between the fingers,
Smell the singe of your own hair
And tell yourself once more,
To say a Hail Mary before
You drop to your knees and pray
That when you rise, the caps will be
Unscathed and plum pink,
All in the image of the virgin.
