Holiday Season


And maybe it's the dyslexia,
I just keep seeing the word anvil instead of anniversary
because the weight of your death is still dragging on me.
The thought of a toast to your memory
sounds more like the first sip of a bender
greasy elbow joints firing finger guns for who's to blame
for the addiction that took you, your heart
wasn't the only to stop beating as it should.

The hair of the dog I was spitting out all summer after
is still sticking to my pallet, I'm like this convulsing cat with haywire fur
I can't get up and out and taste it in the laughter that surrounds your party.
I watched your baby brother snort coke off the same counter you'd cook for us
on. They all say I should lighten up say you would have wanted the party to rage on
which isn't wrong, but approaching this off-season holiday
I know these spring allergies are from poppy flowers not hay fever, and it hangs there
that if you couldn’t end these binge habits for us then, who's next what hour

will I be waking up to a phone call
declaring a new misspelling on the calendar

About the Author

Nicole Jean Turner is an artist from the Greater Boston area with an affinity for vignettes, napping outdoors, and conversations that confront the human condition. She writes in cursive to hide the butchered spelling that would otherwise raise suspicion about her master’s degree in writing.


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