Aubade with Withdrawal
Somehow I’ve slept under the buzzing
sun of the detox center lobby.
When I wake, you’re gone
behind the locked doors. I almost—
what’s the word, expected? hoped?
—for a short goodbye, a punch
on the shoulder, your lips
letting some tiny breath turn
into song. The attendants see me
startle awake and play polite,
like they’re too familiar
with this loss. What do you know
about me, I want to ask. Not
from anger, truly, but because time
is always a question.
When night slips
its sequin dress
back on, it’s still
night knowing when
it’s time to leave
and in its wake
a ripple hiding
blackbirds, brackish
silt with hundreds
of eyes
all looking backwards.
Naloxone
Again, lightning
bug. Stiletto breath,
sing the shotgun
of an engine start.
Tipped balance. Ledge
and body suspended
in sleep. Poppy gone
to seed, burnt under
summer’s unforgiving
affection. Brutal
and begging. Braggart
and belabored.
Deepest nightshade,
ripen on the vine.
Eric Tran is a resident physician in psychiatry in Asheville. He received an MFA from UNC Wilmington. His debut, the Gutter Spread Guide to Prayer, won the Autumn House Press's Rising Writer Prize and his work appears in Iowa Review, Poetry Daily, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere.