tempo

the last bump   was eight years ago       i pray the man who sold it to me 

goes     to my heaven                  i want him clean          i want to kiss him 

yes       yes i’ve been alive            for centuries  trespassing through the yuck 

of every universe          i’m still here         i’m not here yet         why even ask 

such a tired     question                            the body sheds the body in its sleep 

time is the only thing                that passes         the more of it you’ve lost 

the      more      of        it           you’ve                 gained 

Copyright © 2024 by Ilyus Evander. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 19, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets. 

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“The saying goes, ‘Everyday is a new day.’ When in recovery from addiction, this can feel less true. Nothing truly ends—its existence simply moves from the present to the past. Each day becomes yesterday. My desire to relapse is always in competition with my need to stay sober; the only thing that changes is the date. This poem was originally drafted in the Undercurrent Workshop series, facilitated by Desireé Dallagiacomo.”
—Ilyus Evander