I remember you touched by holier hands
than mine and leaning into that void of
helplessness, your brown eyes scared with
the realization of who you were not and
what you were not becoming. Your hands
would clutch at any icon: The crucifix,
the phallus, the bottle of mad misery
you poured yourself into, always hoping
for relief, wishing for a cure some magic
to change you from poor desperate creature
wash your insides bleach your heart put
back the broken and empty pieces and make
you clean and whole again your hourglass
refilled your high school yearbook face
unlined sixteen years old before everything
went away leaving cold night increased
gravity gut a wet mop inside you twisted
wringing wet and always slowly unwinding.
I remember you sad and proper, reminding yourself
Not to beg when the scraps were yours to keep.
Rusty Truck 