A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
For a long time, each day was a bad day.
Truthfully? For years, each day was a bad day.
The nights were worse, but she could slide
The deadbolt on the bedroom door, and swallow
An Ambien, or two, to summon sleep.
Thank god she never dreamed about it.
The meetings helped, but it was hard to go
Because the first thing you did was admit
You were fucked, and had no power.
It was worse to stay home, sitting on the fear
Like a solitary hen hatching poisoned eggs.
There were a lot of rules and tissues in the room.
The rules were followed. The tissues were
Dispensed to those who wept.
In the rooms, there was infinite suffering.
It had 3 minutes each to describe itself.
A little timer went off, or someone waved
A cardboard clock face in the air. One Suffering
Stopped talking. Then the next Suffering started up.
A lot of suffering in the world, is the first clear thought
Most people have when they come here.
Copyright 2018 Kate Daniels. From In the Months of My Son’s Recovery by Kate Daniels. Forthcoming from LSU Press (2019).
Reprinted from Five Points vol. 18, #2 2017.