keli bolin

All The Nights Are Windy Now


It’s 7 PM on a Sunday and you mention
that you’re taking a fistful of pills to combat the DTs.
I laugh, because I have just taken a handful of bennies
and chased it with a Diet Coke. These moments,
taken out of context, splayed out on the table like an autopsy patient
seem to say that we are not masters of our own ships.
I take the pills, try not to count the dose but I do anyway, I always do.
To push the limits of numbness and come down the other side
barefoot and bleeding, but it’s better than sitting around
at 7 PM on a Sunday, talking to you about your drinking problem.
Worrying about each of us but rowing merrily along in our intoxicating boats,
You with your booze, me with my ever present bottle of tranquilizers.
We’re both shooting for a feeling of no feeling.
No emotions, no ups and downs, no strife, no joy. No midnight runs
to the emergency room when the handful of pills got too big
or the bottle started looking too small.
Just a pleasant floating spot in the darkness, just a fleck of light.
Just enough to keep life conveniently out of the way and death
a little too far out of reach.
I ask, “Are we shipwrecks?”
You take a long draw on a bottle and shrug.