I am in the bathroom pissing gin.
The bathroom is stainless steel
like the abs of a smut model.
The gin is free because my dog
is friends with the bartender’s dog.
The evening is endless because
after the bar is 14th Avenue, and
in the lavender dusk, I am weightless
and in the build-your-own-falafel joint,
I am bottomless. I am breathless
with pain as the nightshades
excoriate my intestinal abscess
but in lieu of health insurance,
denial will do splendidly.
When my husband fucks me,
I am not thinking rupture.
When I fall asleep, I am
not thinking propofol.
I am not thinking that’s how
Michael Jackson died.
I’m not thinking dying at all,
but dying is thinking about me,
which is more than the doctors
will do. To the doctors, I will be
Female, 26. I will be Room 420
blaze it. Except not, because
blazing it makes me puke.
Get the paper towels, husband.
Get me another gin and tonic,
because I’m not ready to leave
this bar. Because this is the last night
I’ll know what it’s like to live
without holes.