If I could pour forgiveness into a cup
and drink it,
would it coat my bad intentions
like a tonic,
switch off
the red alert sign
pulsing behind my eyes?
I’ve given up booze
and casual sex
but there’s no substitute
that dulls the anger
quite as effectively.
I need a tonic to fill me
with the pull of the tides,
with the satin slip
of resurrection waters,
to absorb my howls
into its magic potion
and pour out starlight.