She swore the trench knife
she carried in her purse
saved her life hitchhiking home.
She weighed maybe
eighty pounds
dirty tight clothes
that dared anyone to say shit
took the dirty spoon from my
dried-up cereal bowl
wiped it on her leg
tapped out a pile of yellow powder
from a film can
water from my night-glass
holding a match so it bubbled
asked if I ever wore a tie
I said no but
I had bought one
for Dad and hadn’t mailed it yet.
Gimme it, she said. You can
have it back. With a long nail
slit the Christmas paper
and unfurled the crimson silk,
wrapped it tight about her bicep
told me true terrible stories
waiting for a vein to rise
slapping her arm
put a dot of cotton wool
into the heated spoon
to soak it up
crimped the syringe in her teeth
filled it with one hand
held up her chicken arm
talking talking talking
almost ecstatic
“This looks dangerous
but it’s safe as babies.
I never wanted to stop
and you won’t either.”
Years ago she showed me
how to smoke.
I was bad at it,
coughing, awkward
She said I’d get it
this transformation
some things she said
just take time.
[…] Things Take Time – J HARDY CARROLL […]