—IT’S A LONG GAME BUT THEY'RE GONNA TELL YOU IT'S NOT

 

 

That Day: A Relapse

 

The dopey bear 

hangs its head 

in my doorway, 

shuddering, torpor

and anguish entwined, 

nose running like Mississippi, 

eyes two loops of a red-rimmed 

sun shot down, 

and I don’t know 

what to do 

or how to breathe, 

yet I spring up as if 

eager to see him, 

my son who has 

shattered again, 

tufts of his rank fur 

swirling between us 

like wishes and regrets 

too far out of reach, 

each of us stunned 

in our own way, 

looking for a foothold 

or some sign of 

what comes next,

hibernation or something 

far more dense than that,

either way a weight 

neither of us 

can carry.