The Tendency To Slip

a poem by Tony Godino

The Tendency To Slip 

He said I’m gonna lick the bag 
because I’m Pennsylvania trash. 
Then he rolled up a twenty and 
asked me where I been. 
I told him and he listened.

I’ve changed, I said. l showed him
all my essays on aging, with pages 
and pages of prosaic aching. 
Told him how I stayed up nights 
obsessing over style, conflict, 
pronouns, and pacing. Holding 
the broken oaths I’ve let go
years ago. Trying on memory 
after memory. Spinning in front 
of the mirror wondering which 
form is less menacing. Maybe 
you can no longer quietly search 

for purpose, not these days,
but this isn’t about the beast 
that works the page, he said
taking the twenty from me,
is it? He dipped his finger 
in what was left on the hotel desk,
rubbed it into his gums,
put some on his cigarette,
and said, it’s about the beast
that approaches. As more of it 
glows, he pointed up, you lose more
control. Some days I awake, I said,

a naked animal in an open cage.
Today was one of those days.
She made it to the eighth phase 
unscathed. Close but never close 
enough. I step closer to her ghost. 
At noon, I held her in my arms 
and worried for her midnight throat.
I must choose a form,
I told him. I can’t be both. 

I don’t know, 
but I think a werewolf is a metaphor 
for addiction. It’s waking up 
thinking god what have I done 
covered in blood hoping 
it’s yours.
That, I know.