n that each day I cycle through
my textures—waking as flannel
until I apply espresso so I become
tweed which wears to a kind
of threadbare satin until I apply
one bourbon at bedtime and become
flannel again. Sometimes the rocks
glasses build up on the nightstand
because I am addicted to always
thinking about something else
besides what needs to be done.
And when I say I have named
our puppy Benzo, it is short for
Diazepine, because I know pills
can cover for me as if I were
a crazed canary in a cage and they
were the black curtain to calm me.
And I won’t pick the poppies
that grow overdoses because
I know the nausea that follows
such easy pleasure. I am addicted
to the way loneliness is being
surrounded by all manner of people
I want to kiss but can never
figure out how to talk to and to
the pings of social media where
I don't have to be clever on cue.
Mostly, though, I am addicted
to being in this body, to taking
care, and I know this will kill me,
but no faster or slower
than the average dying.
Sonia Greenfield was born and raised in Peekskill, New York, and her book, Boy with a Halo at the Farmer's Market, won the 2014 Codhill Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in a variety of places, including in 2010 Best American Poetry, The Antioch Review, The Bellevue Literary Review, The Los Angeles Review, The Massachusetts Review, and Willow Springs. She lives with her husband and son in Hollywood where she edits the Rise Up Review and co-directs the Southern California Poetry Festival.