The boy who taught you
addiction was gone like a rainbow,
the lilt of his anxious singing
quiet like the night’s sharp noise.
At summer camp you swam
naked before the sun was up:
caught lice, a snake, and a bug
for theatrical pauses in your day.
History plagues you like the plague.
You limp with the pain of facts.
Your Achilles heel is torn from sex;
you told the doctor you were dancing.
Marc Anthony was lame in his way
too, as was Cleopatra. You know how
to lie to yourself without lying.
Ice cream no longer soothes you.
A lover barks at you like the dog
that died beneath your feet,
a bend of blood upon the road, brave
car chaser, gospel of your youth.
You cease to hope for craven comforts.
Acupuncture finds the tiny holes
in your soul and renames them as meridians,
turning you into a shaken snow globe.