Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Laurie Barton

Contact High

I'm back in her Toyota Tundra again, this time reading the Big Book in earnest, not just droning "A Vision For You" in my role as the perfect sponsee. I'd woken up Monday, cold, facing the week like someone lost on the steppes of Patagonia. Like a pumpkin sprouting fuzz. We laugh at quaint words, the specks that turn to thunder clouds. She tells me I can never drink again, and I think of my seasonal brew, the corkscrew I don't want to throw away. All that pot smoke two rows away at the concert, and her own hands drawing it forward, the deep inhalations, the wish that the genie would come, that breathing in this life would be enough.