The air hangs heavy with intention
Covering the empty roadways in mist
Memories bubble up and churn.
A single car rolls down a dirt road
Cutting through the mist like a fish through water
In a small country graveyard a son sets his father’s urn down.
Marking it with a sprig of fresh cedar glistening with dewdrops.
His arms ache from the cuts and injections, bleeding under an old silk shirt.
He looks fine but on the inside he is terribly sick strung out shaking.
Tired of a life of addiction and pain but unable to escape it.
He drives home through the fog, black band on his right wrist.
Memories of hanging heavy around his neck, silver and gold chains.
The sharp, vivid sickness of sobriety.
Bright, painful, too clear.
Finds a vein, red flag first try, pushes the plunger
Then at last shuts his eyes, trying to block out the world.
-Jack Blare, 2023
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