Volume 26, Number 2

Recovery. A Nonfiction.

Left arm bound by the Bible belt stretched
thin between his teeth, stripped skeletal

in the closet plunging flagpoles into any land
left in his skin. He says,

Dylan                             I snuck into your bed.
You were blacked out      I did things.
And I said


I couldn’t talk without his dad’s southern drawl
scratching faggot at the back of my throat.

The next time we spoke, it was not about the breaking
the entering. I told him I was working the fourth step,

he said: That’s the relapse step.

One year sober I get a call from a past flame
extinguished with piss. She says,

Dylan                             do you remember?
You were every evil         you did things.

And I listened

to hear all the pillage in my footprints.
I’m still afraid of locked doors, she said.

Still, I miss the muted sounds of blackouts.
I miss the world I never knew I lived.

—Dylan Weir