723 Dry Run Road

Snorting thin lines of pixie dust.

My eyes soar across

the brick wall.

It’s littered with children,

dangling by their feet

like fairy lights,

covered in pestering weeds.

I picked the most beautiful

flower for my mother.

It was still ugly,

wilted at the seams

of each petal, the faded

yellow barely

clinging on,

but she accepted it

and told me

she loved me.

 

Stepping along

the pavement,

off the porch,

and into the barrier

of a house,

there’s a wooden

table. It’s cracked

and old, but sturdy

enough to serve its purpose.

I had used the sharp, jagged

teeth of a key

to carve my scars

of angst into the tabletop, while my mother

passed the pipe along to her friends,

and bantered in code about life,

injustice, the war on drugs.

 

Walking along, the door

of her bedroom creaks

open. I peek inside.

Along the wall, there’s a tall

shelf and an endless succession

of movies. She used to collect them.

I had watched her

as she chopped

her reality into thin,

white lines in the bathroom

on the cover of Half Baked,

claimed at the corner

with a chicken-scratch scrawl

of Rob & Gin. Highlighted

with a dusting of leftover

Percocet.

 

Further, deeper,

I greet the steps of the basement,

the ground ghostly, cold

concrete. The furnace is tucked

away in pitch black.

My stepfather had laughed

as he took the Sudafed

that he had begged my mother

to buy for him

and mixed the chemicals.

Virginia’s best chef,

scientist,

addict.

 

We no longer live

on 723

Dry Run Road.

We were evicted

from 209

Woodland Avenue.

Now, we reside

on 5810 Main Street.

She drives,

venturing further

for her fix. My little brother

and I shuffle boxes

into unfamiliar territory

and watch as she,

as this family

of broken veins

and codependent genes,

suffer.

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

Well done. Crazy detail. I could see the cover of Half Baked in a bathroom. Rang true. nice piece.