Naloxone
Do you hear that? All the things
I meant to do are burnt spoons
hanging from the porch like chimes,
Do you have some wind? Just a hit
and was the grass always this vocal?
A hit and the blades start sharpening
in the sun. I wear a belt
because my pants don’t fit.
My pants don’t fit because I wear
the belt. I can tell you how it tastes.
Tannin. Heaven. Is it May already?
As onetime owner of my own
private spring, I can say
it’s overrated. Remember? Someone
found me in a coffee shop bathroom
after I’d overdone it
and carried me like a feed sack
to the curb. As they brought me back,
they said, the poppies on my arms
bruised red petals.
They said, He’s your savior.
But let’s not get carried away.
Let’s stop comparing everything
to wings. Have you ever even felt
like you’re going to not die
forever? It’s terrifying.
–William Brewer
Brewer, W. (2017). I know your kind: poems.
Minneapolis, Minnesota: Milkweed Editions, p. 21-22