River Heroin Poem by Joe Bisicchia

I am here as they pull out a woman, stiff and quiet as a doll, from the river. I stand rather rigid myself, wondering. Of her rigor mortis and of the fish. The selfish still swim, even though our town has no rivers, but we do have so much sorrow in our wake.

Later, I walk into small church never far away, one where she and I had sung as children. I swim up silent shiny aisle, under painted surface of low heavens. In nearing distance, the tabernacle, far as the past. Diminishing emptiness in between, except for the coffin.

At end of her funeral, flowing outside, up to sky I hum to her a temporary goodbye. She had died in a back alley from some insidious disease. And even now I am begging for sunlight of the river. I want to toss my guilt toward that water and close my eyes. I want to explode. Let it be a hit somewhere with a splash, proving life still exists, still has impact beyond the sting. I want it to pinpoint where heaven is, something I may never be divine enough to do, and I open my eyes hoping to see forever the ripples.

What I see, and what I hear speak behind me. Church bells, and the heels of her hearse crackle the street as she quietly steps away. I hear her turn from the river, and so I do my best to follow.



Published by Anti-Heroin Chic,2018