A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Whether it’s true or not, that all our
molecules replace themselves each seven
years, his body seems halfway new again,
one year into sobriety. I keep my distance now
but recall his painful, ten-pound freight, the torpor
of late term pregnancy. All those final weeks, I rested,
famished, calling for food I could spin into blood
and bones so he could thrive. Even then, his cravings
ruled us both – mindlessly, he craved to grow,
taking what he needed from my willing body
as – two decades later – he would steal
what he needed from my dresser drawers –
bank book, string of pearls, his grandmother’s
tiny chip of diamond-studded wedding ring.
The latter must have brought him almost nothing
at the Cash for Gold store where all the junkies hang out.
Copyright 2018 Kate Daniels. Reprinted from New Letters vol. 83, #4.
From In the Months of My Son’s Recovery, by Kate Daniels. Forthcoming from LSU Press (2019).