Extinction Method

At some point, your wanting matters less than sleep’s beginning

and you learn what it means to drift. Nothing formative sticks:

no watery bone of gin on my breath, no lullaby slurred, no memory

of my absence when you’re older, half-seas over. The runnel of light

under the door is a beacon for wreckage that cannot be inherited

if you close your eyes, breathe steady as the bottle tucked in my jacket,

this house I tiptoe from to keep you safe. Because restlessness is in your blood,

I hope you never swallow your cures. Because I’m weak, there’s temptation

to dip a finger past the highball rim and ease you into mine. When I can’t sleep,

the hand over my mouth is my father’s. The taste is impossible to shake.

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