Pity The Poor Alcoholic

she heard "I Like Your Peacock"
and she thought "Christ will come like that" (pregnant suns, how was that imagery even possible, could you imagine the sun mother bent over wearily, her back sore with light?)

the alcohol always catches her off guard. it's not that she does it every night it's that she does it at the most inopportune times like just before work or driving down the interstate. the exits are tight: construction is unpredictable. with ardor, shaky lean torso, it always catches her off guard because she's vomiting next thing she knows. under the low predictable light of the bathroom, the sound of other women's high heels clacking around her and their knowledgeable hush as the splash hits the water. always deep cherry red. it still smells like wine.

somebody stops her on the street and says, "I LIKE YOUR PEACOCK" and it takes her a second to realize that they mean the tattoo because she forgets that it's there. her head is too full all the time and she wants it dulled, dialed down, scrubbed away. the dead clean neatness of space. out there, she'll speak her thoughts aloud, because no one will be able to hear them.

comme ca, elle l'aime. it's this she loves: feeling infinitely sorry for herself.