they thought I was dying / I couldn’t turn
my head, tendons and muscles
turned to rebar in my neck / there were things
I didn’t want to see.
They suspected meningitis / the bad one,
the one that kills you
before you know
you’re the host.
The nurse came in
with two paper shot glasses / tap water
and Vicodin. She watched the pill land
on my pink tongue, bob down
my pink throat, waterfall
The drug bloomed
in my bloodstream / the streets
were empty and peaceful,
wet in rain I hadn’t seen fall.
Upon asphalt I read secrets,
beautiful phrases only I could see.
We are addicts
in waiting / we are vices too.
Teresa Morse is a Kansas native turned Georgian now living in the Cedar Valley with her husband and pug. When not reading or writing, she can be found hiking, baking bread, or rummaging in antique stores. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cape Rock, The Manhattanville Review, Fearsome Critters, and Red Earth Review, among others.