The newspaper headline made it clear—

                               you don’t have to be sober to save

a life—the story of an intoxicated man

                               booking an Uber to a rehabilitation center

for the sole passenger: a dying goldfinch. By ways of induction

                               I didn’t know were possible, I found

myself wishing for a rescue of similar proportions—

                               sawdust in my shy mouth, diagonal flurries

of blustery wind knocking my running face like a punching bag,

                               out of me rose a river of blue vomit

littered with golden stars and vintage trinkets

                               making a profane sludge that flared amber

and settled its bright dung right in front

                               the door of my future father-in-law’s

apartment. Determined to turn embarrassment

                               into bewilderment, I pretended to lie

down, like only a creature in a pool of its own suffering

                               can. The performance of stupor, difficult

to enjoy unless one really fell asleep. If my conscious

                               slumped over in this immersion, I don’t

 

know. In the hospital, the softest part of my body suffered

                               the injection of a hypodermic needle. In a more

desirable state, the real question: why always subject softness

                               to such piercing impact? Anaesthetized, my throaty

squawk: a roomy drawl. The circumstances

                               unpinnable, the dates of adversity always had 

the year missing. The day of my bachelor party, I woke

                               up in a Moroccan lounge. Asked to improvise

a belly dance before I had even brushed my teeth,

                               I lifted the veil off my face to apply some strawberry

lip balm. The dense crowd of mannequins sizzled and spat

                               a series of heavy metal laughs. Sensing

a rare chance for resonance, I hitched my cackle to the same

                               pitch. The floorboards creaked with giggly

pleasure, as beside me an urn toppled. I hardly flinched

                               when it rolled over to my bare feet.