The Moment of Truth.
My glassy presence
in the night light
is alone . . .
talking to me.
At me.
Fine shaking fingers
reach for another cigarette,
no bourbon . . .
wanting (say it, go on) NO!
Fine fingers touch my unshaven cheek
—and I’m alone . . .
red eyes and bags
in the mirror.
Now I lean out
the concrete’s five floors below.
And there’s tipping point
No guts.
No pills for this.
I see fine fingers
with silver rings
gleam in the moonlight.
The lady goddess in me cries for shame:
“You’re not alone . . .”
She carefully holds what’s left of me.
I’m not alone . . .
A battle goes on between
tonight
and tomorrow.
Savage blood in green fields.
Tomorrow wins
My fine fingers guide
my unshaven cheek,
my icy presence,
to my damp pillow
First published in ZineWest 2017
