Everyone’s done something unforgivable.
Just like no one’s as healthy
as they look. Everyone’s

done something, said
something, left something
unsaid. My unforgivable’s

there, like a bottle wedged
into the medicine chest, between
I didn’t mean and I was really…

It’s there every time I need aspirin,
twice a day when I brush my teeth.
No expiration date, so no

dropping it off on Expired Drug
Amnesty Day. The neater,
cleaner, sweeter I strive to be,

the more I bump into what shames me.
We do stay in touch.
Is time a healer? I’d say it’s choosy.

When oblivion pounds the cliffs,
eating away at everything lofty or lovely,
how come my little bottle’s

erosion-proof, water-tight?
The other day, Now’s the moment,
I thought. As if something sticky

had dried, it was hard to pry free
(or see: damn this potency-guarding 
plastic!). No way then but in,

wrangling the child-proof cap
with my palm—when all at once
8 years old and unfreighted,

around my neck only
two keys (to open our door,
to tighten my skates) ringing

in time to each asphalt glide
while, alive beneath my wheels
all the way to my crown, look,

the road—by what right?
by whose gift?—
was winging me on.