by Kelsey D. Mahaffey
1.
You tell me there is none.
That you are happy
and all is well.
You’re just hungry, you say.
Two eggs for breakfast
doesn’t cut it anymore.
There’s a store, you say,
Stop there.
I turn the car volume up.
I’m playing Counting Crows
to distract you. Remember
“Perfect Blue Buildings?”
You nod.
Help me stay awake, I’m falling,
the speakers sing.
You don’t make it to the end.
2.
We’re seen right away.
You obey the strip—
the open gown flapping
like two proud flags.
You answer the questions,
refuse the water.
Sir, can you tell me what happened?
What have you had to drink today?
Do you want to die?
3.
Alone in the exam room,
again you tell me,
More.
And again, More.
And, Just one more before it’s too late.
Trust me, you say.
All you need is a drink.
There’s a store, you say.
We passed it on the way here.
A grocery store will do.
There’s wine there—get white.
A pink pamphlet on the wall begs,
Please take one.
Please, just one more
and then I’ll stop.
Breath escapes me.
Soon, I say,
I’m going soon.
Kelsey D. Mahaffey keeps half her heart in New Orleans and walks the earth barefoot beside three humans and a bow-legged cat. Her work can be seen in Arkansas Review, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & the Arts, The Sunlight Press, Cumberland River Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, Writers Resist, Eunoia Review and Minerva Rising Press. She is the author of the chapbook, No Fault of Water, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
