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Alarm

Julianne Lechman

She hammers the snooze bar, gulping sleep
in nine-minute shots, breathing
hours-old gin, her tongue pulsing
with headache thirst and false
oaths. I tread the slick waxed
hall, soles of thin backless
house shoes fall in heavy slaps
across the dark wood. Curling lip
behind teeth, I drum her door, inch it with chilled
fingers. She moans, her nostrils filled
in waves with warm kitchen air-the sweet, steamy
gurgle of rich hazelnut coffee,
the salty wet pop of marbled pink
bacon cuts-I nudge her. She pukes
in acid, throaty heaves, white of her eyes
crawling with needle-thin vessels, glazed,
bulging with secrets,
mirroring regret.

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