to try and crush you, and after that, it feels like everything

comes at you at once, and if it weren’t for those walnuts

you think you’d probably just sit down and let the slugs

slime through you, the ants stab you again and again, and the

insects

knock you down for the count. So alone in this city, and far

from the few people who, unbelievably, love me, I focus

on what will get me through—the pretty flowered sheets

on my single bed, cold leftovers and wine, the inane

and relentlessly hopeful music that accompanies the bug as it

struggles up

a steep slope and stops, panting, the hero of its tiny, challenged life.

This Poem Is In Recovery

THIS POEM IS IN RECOVERY

If you think I’m going to raise one single frosted martini glass

or a rocks tumbler in whose liquid the reflection

and noise of a pinball machine trembles, chink-kachink-ka-ka-ka-chink

or even a little Herradura shot glass from Mexico

or a goblet etched with the name of a winery

and a rearing horse, if you think a green or amber bottle

is going to make an appearance, or you’re holding out

for a can of Mickeys Big Mouth or hopefully a charming leather flask,

forget you. I’m not even going to reminisce about all the vodka—

drink of a tragic people—that I consumed beside the Neva,

watching the drawbridges ratchet up and down

and the elaborate fountains at the czar’s palace foam

like the champagne my new husband shook and let explode

all over us, or—forget me—I won’t even hold forth

on the Victorians’ justified condemnation of gin

(mothers abandoning their newborns in gutters, etc.)

or the large numbers of pifflicated Japanese monks

gazing syllabically at the moon or the river of blossoms.

I’m going to forgo my usual subject matter, along with much

of history and literature, in favor of the present,

absolutely alcohol-free moment. Here it is:

Here it is again:

I’m not going to get drunk and take off my clothes

to sign my book for you, or bite you on the mouth

in a bathroom with the light off so it’s as black in there

as an entire case of Freixenet bottles

while the raucous party goes on in the hotel suite.

And I am definitely not going to climb the stoplight

or fall through the sliding glass doors

or try to pole dance on the stripper’s night off.

None of that nonsense here. Here we’re all recovering.

Chamomile, or lemon? Plain or sparkling?

How about decaf? Here comes another moment

attached to nothing. Here comes too much

peace and quiet, while we wait for our demons

to shake off their hangovers and pay us a visit.

FIVE

FIVE

Dear Reader

DEAR READER

Tonight I am amazed by all the people making love

while I sit alone in my pajamas in a foreign country