21 Resolution
22 Detox Psalm
24 Withdrawal Dream with Feather and Knife
29 Withdrawal Dream on the Cape
34 Letter in Response to a Letter from My Son
36 In the Room of the Overdosed, an Ember
38 Explanation of Matter in Oxyana
39 Today I Took You to Our Oxyana High School Reunion
40 Ascent
I know your kind, he said. What’s wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.
— CORMAC MCCARTHY
Oxyana (n): A nickname given to the town of Oceana, West Virginia, after becoming a capital of OxyContin abuse. Following a successful crackdown on prescription painkillers, heroin has now flooded the state. West Virginia has the highest fatal overdose rate in America, nearly three times the national average.
OXYANA, WEST VIRGINIA
None of it was ever ours: the Alleghenies,
the fog-strangled mornings of March,
cicadas fucking to death on the sidewalks,
the pink heads of rhododendrons
lopped off by the wind.
We wrestled earth with alchemy,
turned creek beds into wineglasses
the Roosevelts used at state dinners,
fueled fires hot as the sun’s dreams.
And there was light: a mile deep
in the underworld mines,
beaming from our foreheads
like wings through dust.
Not even the days we called beautiful.
Autumn weekends when DC drove in
to take pictures. Women in silk dresses
picking our apples, posing,
holding our bushel baskets
with a tenderness we’ve never known.
Snow days, belly-crawling
onto the frozen lake
to hear the ice recite the Iliad.
Not Hog Hill where Massey Energy
dumped cinder, the gray waste
between breaths, poisoned trees
black like charred bones,
where we burned cars while girls
wrote our death dates on our palms
with their tongues—even now,
rain choking the throats of smokestacks,
the river a vein of rust and trash.
Have you ever seen so many cold faces
slapped in the afternoon?
So many voices screaming— Wake up.
This is beyond desire.
This is looking through a hole
in the wall around heaven.
How do you forget that—
a world without ruin,
a world that can’t be taken?
Where once was faith,
there are sirens: red lights spinning
door to door, a record twenty-four
in one day, all the bodies
at the morgue filled with light.
Who can stand another night
stealing fistfuls of pills
from our cancer-sick neighbors?
Of the railcars crying,
the timber trucks hauling away
the history of a million birds?
Pitiful? Maybe. But oblivion is all we have.
And if we want to chop it down
or dig it up or send it screaming