Turns out I was wasted when I wrapped

the Jeep around a tree the night I drank

down a deep Tennessee dark—the handle

of Dickel churned then settled with a slosh

in the passenger seat. I’d be lying if I said

I saw God, like the time I watched you die

again & again then revived as if waking

from a dream is some kind of miracle—

we’re all capable of it, you know?

The inexplicable moments you’ve spent

waiting in withdrawal at the methadone

clinic—days after your dealer turned up

dead in a ditch out on Jeff Davis

Highway—miles from where we sleep.

When night after night I came home smelling

like a kicked keg & a cheap excuse, not

remembering the walk back from Oregon

Hill or the blisters on my heels the size

of nickels bursting the next morning—how

they got there & what of it—as if luck

has anything to do with the ends & nails

of a horseshoe once the steel bends & trails off.

Photo used under CC.