Heroin Chic

By GERRY LAFEMINA

Pin prick of pink in the solution to ensure you struck a vein,
before you push the plunger in. Brief burn then spreading

numbness, a lingering… let’s name it exhaustion.
You’ve made a map of minor overdoses—you call it napping,

that nodding out. I’ve seen it all before: syringes
like the thin bones of a kitten, I’ve wiped the sweat,

the vomit away, & for what? I wasn’t a hero then.
I won’t be one tomorrow. I just understand hunger

& all its sister urges. I understand urgency.
I understand I call it love. Understand I need to.

 
Gerry LaFemina is the author of numerous books of poetry and fiction, the most recent of which are Vanishing Horizon (poems, 2011 Anhinga Press), Notes for the Novice Ventriloquist (prose poems, 2013 Mayapple Press) and Clamor (novel, 2013 Codorus Press). He directs the Frostburg Center for Creative Writing at Frostburg State University and divides his time between Maryland and New York.

 

[Click here to purchase your copy of Issue 08]

Heroin Chic

Related Posts

Chinese Palace

Portfolio from China: Poetry Feature I

LI ZHUANG
In your fantasy, the gilded eaves of Tang poked at the sun. / In their shadow, a phoenix rose. / Amid the smoke of burned pepper and orchids, / the emperor’s favorite consort twirled her long sleeves. / Once, in Luo Yang, the moon and the sun shone together.

Xu sits with Grandma He, the last natural heir of Nüshu, and her two friends next to her home in Jiangyong. Still from Xu’s documentary film, “Outside Women’s Café (2023)”. Image courtesy of the artist.

Against This Earth, We Knock

JINJIN XU
The script takes the form of a willow-like text, distinctive from traditional Chinese text in its thin shape and elegance. Whenever Grandma He’s grandmother taught her to write the script, she would cry, as if the physical act of writing the script is an act of confession.

a photo of raindrops on blue window glass

Portfolio from China: Poetry Feature II

YUN QIN WANG 
June rain draws a cross on the glass.  / Alcohol evaporates.  / If I come back to you,  / I can write. My time in China  / is an unending funeral.  / Nobody cried. The notebook is wet.