I couldn't know then, when it began, when she hissed her demand
on the stormy day.
To get her calm, to get out of her space, to stop the wind
I did as she said, and paid and paid and paid and paid.
A six pack first, then a case. Different brands, different labels,
countries,
continents
soon different drives, different stores, lest someone think there was
a problem.
(Like the schlubs behind the counter gave a damn. They just rang up sales.
((Look at all the money in their registers...
How many problems
are there in
the world?)) )
From bubbles she moved to brandies, from hops and barley to wheat to berries to rice to potato to grape and back again, the world tour whirled toward more
more loud thrashes
more tumbles into bed,
more flights for knives, 9-1-1 responder a best friend
after the pills drowned in the brandy in her belly.
(How could so pale a ghost weight more than two grown men could lift?)
Harder spirit to kill, harder falls to come.
In its nascency, had I known dependency would be our child, I'd have killed it in the womb.
Borne by me, this babe suckle-ate my soul, as I let it, left it.
Just to get some quiet on the stormy day.
Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry as he recovered from a disability-causing injury. His poems, essays, and articles have appeared in many print and online publications and anthologies. He resides and teaches near Princeton, NJ. His first poetry chapbook is slated to appear later this year from The Blue Nib. Drink of choice: Tanqueray and tonic with lime.
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