Never Goin' Back

Six years sober today, this from Karaoke Funeral:

THE NEW LOVER

I’m sitting on him in my living room chair,

his lap like a table where my bills pile up,

his lap a glossy stage I dance across,

and from it rises his big carpenter’s hand,

then down and into my shirt, he’s asking

if I’d have his child. Fat fucking chance,

I’m thinking. “I know all I need to know,”

he soothes as we’re watching PBS on the widespread

use of antidepressants; I’d rather pay a shrink

the hundred-plus dollars to whine about

my father’s floating penis, about that straw

perched on the lip of that tall drink, that olive

trembling in the bottom of a glass, and zombie dreams

starring my dead sister, grave-tight until twilight

when she appears, post-autopsy, offering up

odd pieces of herself. Here’s what Big Guy Lover

doesn’t know: Alcoholics take hostages.

He pulls my face up to his, his eyes deep

as disco, says, “Sweetie, I know you could never

be depressed, you smile too much.” I just grin

and shimmy over the hardwood, an unransomed

history aimed at his head.