Tag: sober

Rebirth by Ellen Austin-Li

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Rebirth

It wasn’t an immediate awakening
after I had my first child, but a gradual

dawning, the way the night’s black sky lightens
to silver before hints of the sun appear

above the horizon, sooner than the streaks of gold
rising. There was the morning I woke

to a silent house, an empty crib. The gone baby,
removed by my husband for one night

not enough to pull me out of the chaos
of blackout drinking. The void of not knowing

what I had said, what I had done, how
the house could have burned down

with my son in it. The light entered
with my child’s return, and I added one

sober day to another, until I could remember
the sunrise and my need to see it.

*

Ellen Austin-Li’s debut poetry collection, Incidental Pollen—a 2023 Trio Award finalist and 2024 Wisconsin Poetry Series semi-finalist—is the runner-up to the 2023 Arthur Smith Poetry Prize from Madville Publishing. Finishing Line Press published her chapbooks Firefly and Lockdown: Scenes From Early in the Pandemic. Ellen is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee whose work appears in many places, including SWIMM, Salamander, The Maine Review, Lily Poetry Review, and ONE ART. Ellen holds an MFA in Poetry from the Solstice program. She lives in Cincinnati, OH, where she hosts Poetry Night at Sitwell’s. More info @ https://ellenaustinli.me/

Telling dad the trials and tribulations of Atomic City (Minneapolis Radiation Oncology) by Alex Stolis

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Telling dad the trials and tribulations of Atomic City (Minneapolis Radiation Oncology)

Remember when I was thrown in jail, called you
to bail me out; what wasn’t said meant the most.

Remember when I got clean, was afraid to say so
even knowing you got sober when I was twelve,

and when finally, I mustered the courage you said
Been waiting for you, I’m glad you made it, son.

How we went to AA meetings together, then made
the rounds to all the local bars, nursing our Cokes,

reminiscing with old-timers who used to get drunk
in your bar. Remember how you’d tell them about

my fourteenth birthday, taking me out to Bridgeman’s
and I ate two hot fudge banana sundaes, and a burger.

Remember when my sister was hospitalized after her
third, fourth or sixth suicide attempt, you said to me,

you’re responsible for the effort, son, not the outcome;
or the time you explained to my soon-to-be-ex-wife

what it meant to drink yourself sober; she stormed off,
and we laughed because she didn’t want to understand.

Today, the doc told me that after seven weeks, thirty
-five radiation treatments, and ten months of meds,

I’m cancer free.

Sixteen years ago, I gave your eulogy at St. George’s,
pews filled with a legacy of strength, hope, promises

fulfilled. I’m still sober, still looking for direction;
still hear, well done, son, I’m proud of you.

*

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press.