I ran from it, frightened of revealing
my sick secrets. Morning before my fourth
anniversary, I sealed it, kneeling
in thanks, calling my sponsor, smiling mouth
asking for help on the fifth. He okayed
the next week. That night I wanted to drink,
body’s old reflexes flinching from days
when celebration simply meant no-think
guzzling to senseless sleep. I slogged through three
meetings, obsession at last lifting when
I admitted my craving. Heads agreed
with my longing, nodding yes to my yen
for lie’s soaring, recalling their own sad
yearnings to breathe false balm of Gilead.
Roger Armbrust
March 8, 2010
