We are all in recovery.

Warm, naked and fed,

deep in bliss water

and heartbeats

fingers and toes free from fashion’s

snubs.

Wiggling in our amniotic masterpiece,

devoid of depression

wringing wet in true romance

and far from breakups and love’s letdowns.

Until the finest abode became stuffed with consequence

and sent us all whirling into the world,

Pushed, pulled and snatched from our sac of contentment

and

dragged out into the wind of expectation.

We are all recovering from our birthday

when we began to be a human being

stuck in skin and sex trying to work out

a wardrobe;

aging in blue, aging in pink

remembering gold

longing for silver

while our futures were handed over to

thousands of opinions

on which way to go.

We are all in recovery

from the mess on the sheets,

the panic in a woman,

the foolishness of a dog’s thrust

that

sent us all to rehab

with birth certificates

and licenses to work the day shift

while the sun lit up the world all around us.

Pushing pencils and pistols under the pillows

telling the truth and telling lies

about the first time we were really happy

with the unknown shuffle,

the barber chair,

the wedding cake

and all the reasons to be drunk

in the pit.

We are all in recovery.

D.A. Medina