by Chris Dollard

I.
The only thing I know about loneliness
is sitting in bathwater while the steam
melts holes in the ceiling.

Wind pocks the window. I shave
and dip the blade, hair scattering across
the surface, tiny ships sailing away

from each other. I climb out of the tub,
fresh-faced with pickled fingers.
The storm outside beats on someone.

II.

The only thing I know about pain
is wanting to drink smoke,
hoping it’ll hit like whiskey.

I hitch a ride home
in an ambulance in case something
goes wrong, in case I breathe fire.

I want to defibrillate myself,
push the reset button. Press
play again. Beginning, middle, end.

Red-blue strobes turn purple,
like fireworks and bruises.
Flowers bloom under mottled skin.

III.

The only thing I know about addiction
is spending between time in bed
together. Anesthetic orgasms, how many

does it take? This is fun. Then this is not
fun; this is routine. This is wanting
to be thrown against a wall again

and over and again. I don’t know why
I do these things, but I want the Birth of Venus
in my bedroom, and this is how to get it.

 
CHRIS DOLLARD was born in Montville, CT, and raised in South Kingstown, RI. His work has appeared in Interrobang?! Magazine, The New Verse News and The North Central Review. He is also the poetry editor for Shoreline, the Rhode Island College literary magazine. He lives in Providence, RI.