First Step at 30,000 Feet

Priscilla Rhoades

 

I fly sober—got my three-month chip on Sunday—

while cocktails roll past me on an eye-level cart,

and I smell someone’s bourbon and almost feel

the sweet burn.  Clean and sober, not an aspirin

for me, not even for the headache starting

at the back of my neck.  A memory there.

 

I don’t want it but all at once the past

is washing over me again: his big hands

behind my head forcing my mouth down,

my neck tight, my jaw hard, my shoulders stiff

with resistance.  I shake it off, focus

on the present.  Admitted I was powerless. 

I keep breathing, one breath at a time.

 

Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.

All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.

 

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