WHEN THE PILLS STOP WORKING
By Domenic Scopa
The words that highways make
speak mostly to desperate hitchhikers.
Further out the sky is screaming,
and you are somewhere, waiting,
plotting your night. Maybe you’ll go drinking
I, myself, was fifteen when I murdered.
If someone asks, say I’m looking
for a buried body.
The car windows are luminous and warm,
but I’m in the murky aquarium of my mind,
afraid, again. Go away, I say.
You laugh and lean a little closer.
I don’t want you here, but you don’t listen to me
and never will. I can’t sleep anymore.
They say it’s nice to sleep,
but I don’t believe them.
What else can we do? Sitting, side by side,
in a car we’ve driven many miles.
In the deranged humidity.
In the woodpecker’s persistence.
Our relationship a lily pad on the surface
of a river nobody sails anymore.
Domenic Scopa is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His poetry and translations have been featured in The Adirondack Review, Reed Magazine, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Belleville Park Pages, and many others. He is currently a Lecturer at Plymouth State University and a Writing Center Specialist at New Hampshire Technical Institute. His first book, The Apathy of Clouds (FutureCycle Press), is forthcoming in 2018. He currently reads manuscripts for Hunger Mountain and is an Associate Editor at Ink Brush Publications.
Art by C. O’Connor.