Marisa Lucas
2008
My uncle’s eyes swim with depths
that I refuse to understand—
afraid that if I look too deep,
I’ll never be myself again.
His teeth are rotten, lips splitting and bloody
as he rambles on about things
that never quite make sense.
These are the words of a meth addict,
or a dying man who tries
to hide from death with needles
and pills that infected his blood
in the first place.
I was taught young never
to touch his drinks,
never get too close—
Just in case.
His life is shadowed
as he sinks lower
into his old habits, but
he only lets me watch him drown.
Warns me of becoming him,
tells me to save myself.
Everyone blames him, his
sexuality, but he always says
it was his childhood that drove him
to it in the first place.
Marisa Lucas is a masters student at the University of Findlay, where she is studying Rhetoric and Writing, and also works as a Teacher’s Assistant. She is the author of the poetry collection Cyclamen and Rue (CreateSpace, 2018).
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