Tolerance

I met him once at a field party in Ridge

where trucks lit the grass

like back road chandeliers,

where liquor stung our pallets,

but blanketed our bodies through the chill.

Those nights taught us tolerance,

control over the hits and shots that burned,

but we yearned for them.

Then outdoor parties drifted,

shifted into four walls,

coated in brown sweat

and peppered with dancing lights.

Waterfall the alcohol

into hearts and lungs

already laced with white lines

and pill candy.

Milky fog screened your eyes

and static hearing stung your ears,

buzzing and buzzing

in a world with the lights turned off

until he crashed;

one final hit to the mattress.

Gray skin and

gray sheets

intertwining,

until his brother peeled him away,

limp limbs dangling

from a dead core.

Now phone calls flood my room,

tears spilling through the speaker, but

no words spoken…

and I couldn’t attend the funeral

veiled in darkness

like the shadows that preyed

upon Ridge fields.

We thought we were safe then…

wrapped in the ebony comfort

of long sticky grass,

rusted bottle caps,

small town isolation,

until you hit us.

Your death,

punching us into life.