Samaritan by Annette Sisson

Samaritan

Empty stomach, too much to drink,
I abandoned my coworkers, fled the party

to sprint home—to my parents’ house
cradled in a suburb twenty miles away.

I studied the car keys, assumed my feet
the safer choice. Blocks later, beside

the interstate ramp, I tripped face down,
too broken to rally before a convertible

sped toward me. You pulled over,
folded me into the passenger seat, covered

me with your coat. At the complex we paced
the parking lot, followed a long wall

to the streetlamp and back, you bracing me
under the arm. In patches of grass I vomited

wine, raved about my life, boyfriend
on the east coast, mother just diagnosed,

my plans for grad school unraveling.
Inside the condo you spread a herringbone

blanket, steered me to the couch, untied
my shoes. When morning poked through blinds,

I surveyed a room I’d never seen.
You emerged, dressed and clean-shaven,

early thirties—brought toast, a glass
of water, phoned your office to say

you’d be late, waited until my friends made it
to work. I called, reported I was found,

your face as blurred to me as your name.
Was it John? Brian? Hard to recall,

but when you asked me to choose jelly for toast,
reciting options like pop songs with hopeful

titles, your voice lifted me like an engine
humming, leather jacket around my shoulders.

*

Annette Sisson’s poems appear in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Rust & Moth, and many other journals and anthologies. Her second book, Winter Sharp with Apples, was published by Terrapin Books in October 2024. Her first book, Small Fish in High Branches, was published in May 2022 by Glass Lyre Press.