two poems

Albert Lunn



Five years before, my brother told me gin was good like Christmas:
                 “It’s the best liquor to shoot; it’s cheap
                 but it has an earthy pine taste to it.”

We mixed drinks heavier and heavier,
sitting on my bed with a notebook writing lyrics to an album
we kept dreaming bigger and bigger.

I drifted off while dreaming.

My Brother patted my head
            told me he loved me
            told me
                   all would be right once he had a job
                   he’d make sure he took care of me and mom
                   how he always thought I’d be taking care of them
                   how now he was the one on track
                   how it was funny.

It felt good to be cared for
                          cared about

       He told me he loved me
           pulled me over to hug me small
           kissed the top of my head.
His grip got tighter, his mouth meandered.
My flash pan memory fails me.  

I know I pushed him away.
and he pinned me down
and I reminded him I was not his girlfriend
and I reminded him I was me
and I reminded him I was his brother

but he wasn’t hearing stop.

I pushed him off and shrunk away, then wriggled out the room.

He drifted off to sleep in gluttony
I fell asleep on the couch
In the morning, I drank coffee
    and worked more on our lyrics.



In second grade I sat in Dad’s Mauve Plymouth Voyager with vinyl siding and felt viscous envy I could never grow more life inside me.

In sixth grade I told The Psychologist I didn’t get the point in life.

“You have to make up your own point, what’s important to you? What do you want to do?” I said I wanted to never do drugs so I could be a good father.  

In twelfth grade She came to say She held a body to be and it would soon be whisked away. She told me I couldn’t come. I’ve been looking for that self since.

Crack Ritalin caplets
crush them in a pestle
with a mortar My Mother
bought My Brother
It came in christmas paper; he was gonna be a chef
I was gonna grow up respectable.
Now I savor a nasal drip soul searching from the wrong
side of my mirror. Speeding my consciousness
so the end will get nearer

Pocket handfuls of old oxycodone
Found while looking through old family photos
Kept them for the future when I’d need an escape.
That night My Brother picked up two or three and I took some too.

Unfounded nostalgia
“It’s essentially lab made heroin,” he said.
I wonder what heroin is like.
“Like this, but all of it,” he said.
I can’t imagine dying for this.
“That’s lucky,” he said.

Snort K through a sterile straw in My Brother’s tired computer chair-with the dealer still there. He was My Brother’s friend. It’s a desk chair but it’s just the computer there on the desk, the lines are on a dinner plate I’ll rinse and use right away cause it’s not dirty but it’s not clean. I try to leave but my legs won’t work. It’s funny. I cry. They don’t feel like my tears.

Teeter Totter on the Edge of Psychosis HeavyDosing Diphenhydramine.

The Pretty Pastels Get Me Face Time With My Shadow People.

Hollow Uncle DoorWay Flickers Asking After Leaving.

Well that’s exactly what I was saying before

Memory Fails Before Guilt Grows Legs.

I stay still So The World Won’t Whiplash My Withering Frame I Haven’t Moved In Months.

Crack Consciousness To Clean To Feign Sober: Shadow People’s Footsteps Don’t Track Dirt

On Door Mats.

In sobriety I try to persuade The Psychologist that my dream of death is logical. “You’ve been saying that for a long time now and yet you’re still alive.”

An old soul in a boy's body with a woman's heart and a limping brain.

Albert Lunn is a senior at Hamilton College.