Leveler Poetry Journal
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2.14

 

9:33am

 

A spot! You’re 12 minutes earlier than your 15-minute-early

goal. You found a spot. You’re already making it work, today.

 

9:33:30am

 

The spot’s by a fast-food drive-in. It’s a real spot, but you see

why it’s open. A little too close to the driveway. Getting

sideswiped, a nightmare you can’t add. Smart people pass this

up. They don’t take the bad spots. They have the confidence to

stroll in a few minutes late. There’s enough time to find

another spot.

 

9:34am

 

Pace up and down and around the decision. Wince when cars

get too close. You should move. You should move the car for

peace of mind. It’s not too late. Move the car. You’re

supposed to be meditating on faith. You found this spot.

 

9:35am

 

It’s too late to move the car. You have an appointment. You

can’t make them wait.

 

9:38am

 

Leave car.

 

9:42am

 

Two-step turn. Check the bumper one more time. Clench your

stomach and turn towards the Drug and Alcohol Intake on

Fillmore. Walk. Cross. Take note of how much you don’t like

this street and can’t come back.

 

9:44am

 

Open the clinic door with your sleeve. This is the responsible

thing to do. Catch things before they spiral. You’re good at

this. Catching. Measuring. The damage already accumulated.

Both your therapists agree. It’s (probably) situational. But in

case.

 

9:45am

 

Fold into the instant stick of hot, candy breath and sanitizer.

Dirty, eggshell-tiled floors. Fidgeting hands and elevated,

tone-deaf greetings exchanged mid-conversation. Disquiet.

You were too honest. You’re always too honest, too late.

That’s why you’re here. No one checks the correct boxes on

health-intake forms. It should have gone, a routine physical.

 

9:55am

 

The first counselor wishes you a happy Valentine’s Day. You

have to recall the last 30 days, how many without a drink? It’s

been almost a year. Today, also Fat Tuesday. There are ways

to count, ounces in drinks. Binging denies a cruel imperial

chart. Were you abused? Always the oddest query. Do you

know what that means? Perspective makes it an impossible

question. Recalibration says, don’t be dramatic.

 

10:13am

 

You’re led with a plastic urine cup. Told to leave your purse

on the chair, the nurse will watch. The bathroom has no sink.

You can’t be trusted with water. No mirror. You can’t be. No

one here is allowed to see their fingerprint. It’s feigned

sanitization. It’s a false profile you surrender. It’s only that

piece of you.

 

10:19am

 

Drained. You step outside and ask where you can wash your

hands. There’s a sink in the hallway. You wash in front of the

half-sleeping man you saw earlier. He’s slinky hunched in a

chair, indifferent to your ceremony. His heart rate is seductive.

You mime his breaths. Every 11 seconds. You haven’t slept in

days. You’re asked if it’s ok to be weighed. You say, no. It’s

only blood you’re offering.




Kimberly Reyes