The Hippie Church I was Raised in Doesn't Believe in Sin
       

But I don't know what to do when my body becomes
furniture. The shelf of my back buried in crumbs
of infidelities we won't name. Steady
your beer on my shoulders. Would you like
some pastrami with that dry wry sulk?
Some mornings I bend into
a medicine cabinet, let you fill me
with what's needed to begin
your day. Some nights I splinter
your fingertips. Don't give away
all the fine china on die first date,
some noxious voice once told me.
I like to slide my saucers
under your door out of spite.
I've never turned into anything
I couldn't talk my way out of—
the Planned Parenthood receipts
my mother found, the missing bottles
of Vicodin and cooking wine.
I'm afraid of trying cocaine—
the police would find me,
a naked doormat welcoming drunks
to the subway entrance,
or they wouldn't, which is
exactly what loneliness means.

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Copyright © 2012 Stevie Edwards All rights reserved
from Good Grief
Write Bloody
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission