You wake up.
Yogurt, granola, and fruit for breakfast?
A cheesy omelet with sweet potatoes and collards for lunch.
Tea with breakfast and enough fruit would neutralize the evils within dairy fat and lift the whole up into a reasonably healthy decision.
And then of course wine with lunch to bind with the cheese and make a healthy slush to run through healthy veins.
Still prone in bed, shoulders tense.
Gut and face harden.
Steeling yourself involuntarily.
The shadow passes over your face and gut.
Ready to face and kill the bad thing.
Ready for battle.
Why does alcohol the thought of drinking
why does that shoot panic hope fear whirlwind
all through your conscious space?
Why does it narrow and elongate your conscious space
until it becomes a jagged winding sickened tunnel to the liquor store?
Why do you feel relief overwhelm and dissolve your gyrating flinch when you realize you could have
coconut yogurt at breakfast and goose sausage for lunch,
thereby bypassing the need for wine?
Where did you get goose sausage from?
And coconut yogurt?
What world have you inherited?
And can you ever have a healthy relationship with alcohol?
You think of it again and you feel yourself cave in down the center as if someone’s split your breastplate with the side of a shovel and then folded your shoulders, sides, thigh forward over your center line.
What is going on?
The possibility of a path down the slick rush of drink occurs
and you snap on all sides, desperate for the succor, the escape, the release from the very brutality you are now stoking within and through your body and mind.
What has happened here?
And you bow forward over your knees, arms outstretched, making an impromptu yoga child’s pose in your bed. You tell the hurt scared sick pit in your gut that it is safe now, that no one can hurt it like that anymore, that it is OK and that you wish it would join the rest of you and see all the neat things that are going on nowadays and hereandnow.
let it go; let it slide; let it be; it’s okay