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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