"The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign" by Deborah Bacharach

The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign

She asks for peace.
Peace, $, junk. She lays out
her whole kit,
a small mirror, lipstick.

She knows to worry
about that house. They hang
their clothes in the front yard,
leave them in the rain. They smile
at kids near their drenched
long underwear, blackberry thorns.
They have four carved pumpkins on their front porch,
a dead mouse on the stairs.

She misses the way bodies can fit together, the heat
as a lover spoons her. She misses
the smell of her daughter's scalp as the girl nestles
her head to her breasts.

She has a second bra, a washcloth, herbal soap
that takes her to a day at Talapus Lake,
where evergreens would never stoop
to be fenceposts, broken at that.
But she’s not there. She’s here.

In hell they pass out plastic cups
of creamsicle with no spoon just a half-sized
wooden tongue depressor and you stand
in a deserted school hallway to eat while you wait
for the pick-up that will never come and even
in your agony,
the terror and betrayal, part of you thinks,
this tastes good.

Deborah Bacharach

Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). She received a 2020 Pushcart honorable mention and has been published in journals such as Adroit, Poetry Ireland Review, Vallum, The Carolina Quarterly, and The Southampton Review among many others. She is an editor, teacher and tutor in Seattle. Find out more about her at DeborahBacharach.com.

Headshot: Timothy Aguero Photography

Photo Credit: Shayne Schultz