Alcohol Seas and Opiate Skies


Alcohol Seas and Opiate Skies

Under the Alcohol seas and opiate skies, 

the man fell asleep last night. He didn’t know

I was watching to see if he breathes.

There’s a curl on his forehead he hates,

I skim it lightly to feel for warmth.


Later, I wake to the air silent and chill 

I nudge him and ask,


“Are you alive?”


He gasps, wheezes, and mumbles something in his sleep.


He’s drifting away from me and out to his sea.

I’d dive into the wrack of his brain, 

tangling myself in what’s left of him, 


Just to say,

“Swim parallel to me.”

But he’s carried out to sea in a filmy haze,

never remembering the shore or the breeze

and the crabs dine on what’s left of him and me.

First published in Rue Scribe

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Published by: Basicallybarb

Barbara A Meier is a poet, teacher, and mother, trying to write her way out of Kansas, anxiety and depression. Instead of indulging in feeling like garbage, trash, or rubbish, she chooses to examine the debris of her life by writing poems about it. After all as a forgiven, child of God, simultaneously saint and sinner, she is loved and cherished by her God.

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