Codeine

January 1991

I’ve been closing my grasp on
the glass in my hands, walking
from the wreck with no memory.
I felt nothing, heard nothing, but
I feel the glass crunch and cherish
the sound of it. After the crash,
my mind said, “I’m outta here.”
It hasn’t returned.

How lucky I was. Most die.
I toss my license to the wind, laughing
from my smoky throat. I long for
nothing, learn nothing, but
I feel anxious to return and lie
on the stained pavement. There’s
a telephone pole with my name on it.
I want it.

I’ve been tasting language like
never before. The words are fresh,
real, filling my bones and blood.
I say nothing, see nothing, but
it matters. I’m reading a thousand
novels a day, all about me, written
madly by authors I’ll never know.
I only like the endings.

I’ve grown tired of glass, ice,
anything I can see through. I keep
my doors closed, my mind away, thinking
nothing and thoroughly enjoying it.
How lucky I was.