By Caroline Ridout Stewart
August 28, 2012
Welcome blond smiling man; so well put together.
I have not seen a button down madras shirt like that in years.
You look like a young Republican but I know better.
You are a quiet revolutionary; keen to right the wrongs of years of mental anguish.
You have paid your dues in the swamps of binge drinking and cocaine reveries.
You have toiled in the cruel fields of lost weekends and panic attacks.
You had us both fooled into mind-numbing obeyance to your fictive sobriety.
I hate you for that! How could you ensnare me in your mythic dream of convention?
I pictured you driving a Volvo through the suburbs of Boston and showing off your intellectual wife.
You and she would talk about Albert Camus. I feel like throwing up when I think of our folie a deux.
We drank the Kool Aid on cold winter days and should have known better.
Addiction lies like an adder coiling in our hearts.
But I am no venimologist and no Sisyphus.
I am as simple as a listening stick and I could not save you.
You and I now lie at mountain’s floor as heavy stones worn smooth from relapse.
No more treks into dangerously thin air. No more surfing the avalanche.
You are now with the Gods and I, with my dreams of you, my dear shadow dancer.
The monsters have won.