Aricka Foreman, âHungover Aubadeâ (from Dream with a Glass Chamber)
O eight empty ale bottles, empty pint of whiskey, half-empty water glass, still so much thirst. The day warm with this morningâs coffee, the porch bursting red with fauna, acorns fire against wood slats, roll away undetonated. See two men in the toggled fishing boat cast their lines into the glass lake, silence between them reeled in slow then flicked out again. The sun too bright for sleeping, having given the night before over to drown and burn instead of dreams of a body colding over, a body done with blood blossomed at its mouth, wrapped in its white sheet on the floor of a cheap motel. His leaving split open every blue and yellow pill just the same, salting the wound until it seared and then seared no more. Even the trees move on, the old oakâs leaves know the coming season is for dying and falling away: every goddamned bird in chorus, ushering new through their small eager beaks. Throb and throttle of temple against the light twirling as a glass chime in the water, against the wind, against these men waiting to hook one wet gill, against the steady rush of the gorge behind one leg dangling from the hammock, against the smoking cigarette, dragging in each and every way to slowly enjoy the killing of what kills.
