Neighbor Dies of an Overdose, 1997
It lays there, resting against the gray walls
of the complex, its feet comfortable
on this second floor walkway. It
no longer has a name. We call it
“the body.” An empty bag of chips,
trash, in its lap, the body maybe stealing
a few bites, that tiny taste of crunch,
before a scream tore through it,
left its lips peeled back, an ache
shivering through muscle, forcing
eyes and teeth to reach out,
pull from skin. A child
watches it, leans against her mother’s
corduroyed legs, ice cream spilling
from the edges of her lips, her fingers,
sprinkling over sandaled feet.
Something about the sun setting,
the haze of red cast over puddles
in the parking lot, over heads of all those
looking up at the body, its hands
almost open, arms wide, as if to take them
in, all of them, in. The mother flicks
her cigarette, the haze of it rising,
bitter in the air, gray in her mouth.
She offers me a blowjob
for ten bucks, and I almost say yes.