With a boil the size of an egg
protruding from her right hip,
she knows what I must do,
and to stall me has locked herself
inside the bathroom, bargaining
for a way out.
But it’ s too late: I’ ve seen
the oozing wounds stopped up with bits
of toilet paper and tape, the scarified
pockets that crater the surface
of her arms, buttocks, thighs.
A mean fix torched her last vein
years ago, and she’ s been banging the dope
ever since, puncturing her body
like a juju doll. She wants to kick,
but not now.
I’ m not gonna lie to you, she says
in a velvet voice. I already know what she’ s after:
something stronger than local, a few Percocet, a shot of Demerol
before she’ ll let me begin.
All I can tell you is, when the abscess finally drains
the odor is so foul it’ s evil.
And I’ m not sure, driving home
later that night, still smelling the pallid citrus,
whether it’ s merely hallucination, the way
her memory inhabits me; or if being
in that same room, inhaling
that same air, made some of her
part of me.
And whose veins
are these, beginning to twitch?