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After Detox
He could drink the river.
He could drink the river dry.
He's sitting on the bank,
clasping his knees, vines trembling
around him. Each time he looks across
the water, he imagines the field,
the field with cows and a few crows,
and beyond the pasture
with its oval pond, bare oaks
about a cabin. Always the same path,
the one crooked window, the door
flimsy as a ghost. This is the picture
he drew as a child, repeatedly.
This is what he believes
he will find on the other side.
All I can do is watch
from my kitchen, crack
these eggs, open the jar of jelly.
He'll smell the bacon and climb
toward home. Here comes my son
who is made of cravings. Here comes
my son who is made of gauze. I hold
open the door, my arms stiff as pine.
Here comes my son, my son.
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