In Which Sunset Drinks Me Under the Table Again

by Rachel Dunkel

Sunset, 
my apologies, 
but I cannot be bothered to visit tonight
as I am busy vomiting
up last night’s macabre radiance
into the toilet—
a sunset reflection in its own 
right.

I saw a snap of you in between hurls 
that made me stop for a minute
to consider alternate itineraries—
a parent shown a video
of their child’s missed recital.

Sunset, 
if I had a trombone for every
time this has happened, 
I’d be a Craigslist hero—

if I had a Bible for every
sundry Sunday eve, I’d 
fill every Hilton’s drawers
for free.

Love, 
I promise that next time—
and there will be a next time—
I will take my sorry guts into
the yard, stare up into your knowing
glow, throw up everything that’s 
ever made me miss brilliance
and see my reddened eyes in you.

You are not how I want to die, 
but live, blossoming 
indecent pink onto
every lawn in shameful view 
of neighbor’s children, 
always.

You never die, 
but live, and at this point
I don’t know how you 
afford it.

I’m just trying
to keep
up.

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