Eleventh Step of Grieving
A man who often forgot to shower, his name
beginning with ‘R,’ drank shots from your pierced navel puddle, provided company
along streetlight-speckled sidewalks that stretch between your four-
twenty-five-a-month studio and the neon Bud Light signs of the Pour House.
The couch, once in your parents’ suburban living room,
models your spread-eagled body, torn floral
cushions blooming yellow foam when pressed in all the wrong places.
‘R’ man calls you Karen, forgets it’s Kelly, and prods
his F-150 keys into his wrists to earn extra attention.
You recover from the tumor that crowded out the brain
belonging to your father, sans clothing, distracted, downing Aristocrat straight.