She reads all day on weekends, keeping track
of football games that interest her, and sips
her ginger ale, her wine, although they lack
ability to quench her need. Her lips
press tight. Her tongue, her mind, her sanity
resist the drug that quells her need the best.
Suboxone does not really make her free
from cravings that persist. But comfort dressed
in foil packs subdues the raging fire,
the signals to her brain that coax her on
the path fueled by her sickness, her desire:
It’s heroin that plays her like a pawn.
For months now, she’s been hoping for a sign
that she can end Suboxone and be fine.