or gun to your mouth, give me a call. I’ll
tell how I obsessed over suicide
at seven years sober, raw flesh numb while
each shaking breath reeked with methyl bromide,
every swallow jagged shards of shattered
mirrors through my chest and gut. She had gone,
money dissolved, ego a smashed platter,
my higher power tossed a bitter bone
and shoved in a dungeon. Or so I thought.
How did I know you can’t imprison love?
It kept shoving me to meetings, then taught
me to pay attention. I sensed safe coves
when I heard a guy say: Get honest. Pray.
Help someone. I work on these every day.
Roger Armbrust
September 26, 2009
