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Abstract

c">My mother slumps in her black wheelchair staring out the window of the nursing home, cataract-blind, guessing at shapes like seeing the world from the bottom of a pool.A gospel song plays in the common area, Mom’s back straightens, her body jerks and sways, hands slap together, a toothless smile gapes on her wrinkled face.Every day clean and sober, I witness hidden miracles shudder and awaken in the ache and poignancy of suffering.Another relapse, at the bottom of a shot glass are memories of pleasure. They come in flashes: jean buttons pried open behind the lake’s boathouse, summer rain falling from a blue sky, hitting my bare shoulders.Nostalgia is the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle. I remember every slurred commitment, every wobbly jukebox shuffle, every furious thrust into death.Whenever I use or drink, the body picks up where it left off — feverish chills, trembling hands spilling coffee, a blackout’s erasure of time. I vomit my dreams behind liquor store crates in a back alley.My wife and I walk on the empty beach, sunrise spreads across the glassy ocean surface, a golden tablecloth prepared for God’s feast.We talk of God, times of closeness. I loved Him in my youth, fervently, willing to give up my fishing nets to follow Him, longing to collect the bread and fish of miracles, freely rejoicing as eternity pierced traumas and the mundane.Every day clean and sober, my wife and I wear a prayer shawl made from the colors of creation, and we wait for the joyful surprises, like the dolphins surfacing in the distance. S

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leeping downtown in the backseat of my car, begging for gas money, enough to leave this city that broke me.Remembering why I can’t return to my wife and children as the prodigal husband and father: the unbearable sound of bike spokes heading to a neighbor’s house at dusk, my children seeking shelter from the knives sharpened in my eyes.Whenever I use or drink, my broken body becomes my only home.***The sun comes alive in the kitchen, my wife goes to get us Dunkin Donuts coffee. I check the sports page in the newspaper, my life feels oddly new, filled with the contentment and joy of a lazy Saturday without drama in a space called home.We take a ride into the mountains. You find our favorite song on the dial, and there we are, singing full-lunged, alive, top down, windswept, driving full speed towards the dazzle and blaze of the changing leaves.The music drowns out the past and the future. No regrets, shame, or guilt for our decade of darkness, no fear that ghosts will track us down in the future. We simply move forward and upward, riotous, fully engaged, furiously in love.Every day clean and sober, my faith touches God’s faithfulness, and there is so much life scattered throughout the day.I am an American poet<h2 id="fa50">Note:</h2>This poem explores the negative and positive reasons for me to remain clean and sober. When I use or drink, I suffer losses, grief, homelessness, trauma, and physical decline towards death. When I am clean and sober, I experience joy, love, miracles, beauty, and faith in God. My sobriety is a gift from God and comes from the power of the Spirit.</article></body>

POETRY

Reasons for Me to Stay Clean and Sober

My faith touches God’s faithfulness

My friend and I cook dirty brown heroin with water on a spoon, his needle bites into a collapsed vein, light from a streetlamp crawls into the dark alley, flashing blue lights knife through the night.

A cardboard coffin, makeup disfigures my friend’s face. Unbearable finality, a mother’s silent grieving, the pulse gone quiet.

Every time I use or drink, I lose someone.

***

Sitting with my granddaughter on the edge of a pool, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, suntan lotion slathered on her face and shoulders, her legs swinging, feet kicking at sun-sparkles on the water, sun’s heat at our backs, the word granddaddy on her lips.

Every day clean and sober, I fall in love.

***

I made it thirty days sober before I hated myself enough to taste death again in a whiskey bottle. Now, I stand outside my favorite dive bar, trying to light a cigarette in the wind.

For the next two weeks, concrete becomes my pillow, my wife fades to static on the other end of a pay phone, I eat cheap greasy tacos from a food truck parked near a drug corner.

Every time I use or drink, I become an empty seat in an AA meeting.

***

My mother slumps in her black wheelchair staring out the window of the nursing home, cataract-blind, guessing at shapes like seeing the world from the bottom of a pool.

A gospel song plays in the common area, Mom’s back straightens, her body jerks and sways, hands slap together, a toothless smile gapes on her wrinkled face.

Every day clean and sober, I witness hidden miracles shudder and awaken in the ache and poignancy of suffering.

***

Another relapse, at the bottom of a shot glass are memories of pleasure. They come in flashes: jean buttons pried open behind the lake’s boathouse, summer rain falling from a blue sky, hitting my bare shoulders.

Nostalgia is the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle. I remember every slurred commitment, every wobbly jukebox shuffle, every furious thrust into death.

Whenever I use or drink, the body picks up where it left off — feverish chills, trembling hands spilling coffee, a blackout’s erasure of time. I vomit my dreams behind liquor store crates in a back alley.

***

My wife and I walk on the empty beach, sunrise spreads across the glassy ocean surface, a golden tablecloth prepared for God’s feast.

We talk of God, times of closeness. I loved Him in my youth, fervently, willing to give up my fishing nets to follow Him, longing to collect the bread and fish of miracles, freely rejoicing as eternity pierced traumas and the mundane.

Every day clean and sober, my wife and I wear a prayer shawl made from the colors of creation, and we wait for the joyful surprises, like the dolphins surfacing in the distance.

*** Sleeping downtown in the backseat of my car, begging for gas money, enough to leave this city that broke me.

Remembering why I can’t return to my wife and children as the prodigal husband and father: the unbearable sound of bike spokes heading to a neighbor’s house at dusk, my children seeking shelter from the knives sharpened in my eyes.

Whenever I use or drink, my broken body becomes my only home.

***

The sun comes alive in the kitchen, my wife goes to get us Dunkin Donuts coffee. I check the sports page in the newspaper, my life feels oddly new, filled with the contentment and joy of a lazy Saturday without drama in a space called home.

We take a ride into the mountains. You find our favorite song on the dial, and there we are, singing full-lunged, alive, top down, windswept, driving full speed towards the dazzle and blaze of the changing leaves.

The music drowns out the past and the future. No regrets, shame, or guilt for our decade of darkness, no fear that ghosts will track us down in the future. We simply move forward and upward, riotous, fully engaged, furiously in love.

Every day clean and sober, my faith touches God’s faithfulness, and there is so much life scattered throughout the day.

I am an American poet

Note:

This poem explores the negative and positive reasons for me to remain clean and sober. When I use or drink, I suffer losses, grief, homelessness, trauma, and physical decline towards death. When I am clean and sober, I experience joy, love, miracles, beauty, and faith in God. My sobriety is a gift from God and comes from the power of the Spirit.