Like Preault’s Le Silence, I place finger
to lips. Not to quiet you, love, but let
you know I’m tired of our quarrel, linger
in shadows to hear you rant. You forget
how, when I drank, my rage sent you hiding,
made you wonder if you’d survive the night.
Now you suffer your first dry days, fighting
it all the way, vowing you’ll never sight
a meeting, will conquer your beast on your
own, not follow me just to please me, not
let me control your life, not play some pure
virgin to seduce. Accuse me of plots
to get you sober. I’m mute as a monk,
since I carry the message, not the drunk.
Roger Armbrust
January 27, 2010
