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The time I spilled my whole bottle of Xanax
on the floor of a Jersey Transit train,
and had to white-knuckle it all the way
from Patterson back to Manhattan.

It was like a tree suddenly shedding every leaf:
Exposed, shivering thing.

I remember a tunnel that went on and on,
windows turning black.

I wanted to stick my panic in the hole
in Your side, like Thomas’ finger,
let You swallow it away forever.

You suffered a darkness much darker than mine,

as if to say I love you.
Even if you never get better.
I love you.

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

Justin Lacour

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He has poems forthcoming in South Dakota Review, Ekstasis, Fathom, and Heart of Flesh.