by Rosana Garcia

The door is locked, the tools laid out.
Suck the coating off, it costs you time.
Crush with heavy object, into powder.
Line it up with a credit card or ID.
Roll up a dollar bill or use a straw.
Breathe in and in and in. Wait.

It’ll blur and drip like cough medicine
in the back of your throat. It’ll make
you: forget, float, tune out, glaze over,
paralyzed, gone, imcomprehensible, hurt
in the morning. It doesn’t erase tears,
only saves them for when the day has come.

He taught me how and when he said,
“It’s over,” he gave me 30 milligrams.
Then I sat and let the pain exit, go.
It always returns, but this moment
I cannot handle. I will put it off,
until tomorrow, when the day has come.

(c) 2006 understar productions and Rosana Garcia