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3.5 Months

—Jean Mikhail

3.5 Months

There are two of you now,

like two moons in the same month,

a super blue moon, a second son

who came unexpectedly. The one

called the addict is not you, I am told.

The son I brought home was light,

carried in the folds of my arms.

I quilted you under my skin,

patchworked together, your two eyelids

stitched with tiny blue capillaries.

I know them. I have kissed

where the man in the half moon

hooked you, his belt cinched

into a lasso, diminished into shadow.

For two moons and a half moon,

you’ve been sober at a rehab.

It is easier to measure time this way.

One star snags on the pulley

of the curtain in your room.

One errant stitch can bring

the whole sheer sky down.

There’s a family of galaxies

rotating around you.

You pull a blanket covered

in pilling under your chin,

suboxone and seroquel numb you.

You prefer black out curtains.

Although barred, your window’s

full moon is boxed like a gift.

Three moons and a half moon,

and a fault line shudders under you.

The moon goes lopsided,

sometimes drifts, sometimes tilts,

leans into you, whispering to use.

It is disconcerting, but you sleep

somewhere safe. Isn’t that better

than walking through streets,

with puddles that seep up your pant legs,

into mountain chains around your ankles?


JEAN MIKHAIL has earned a Masters in Creative Writing at Ohio University, and lives in Athens, Ohio. She has published in Sheila NA Gig Online, The Northern Appalachian Review, Pudding Magazine, Fifth Wednesday Journal, and other journals and anthologies, including “Women of Appalachia,” an anthology compiled by the Ohio Poet Laureate.

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