Revision One of FLAMING OUT IN THE BRONX for Thursday February 16, 2023 Jill
jill stockinger
Flaming Out in the Bronx by Jill Stockinger
Thin-bodied, soft and frail,
a pale white worm shivering in the cold
garbage-strewn gutters of the Bronx,
you inch your way to Tremont Park
where the 5, 6, 7, 8--it’s like the end
of a game, when kids have finished
playing and the leader calls out,
“Olly, olly, oxen free,”--come out
of their hiding places. The junkies
throng, waiting out the cop. He’s a fat,
old, weary guy, his gut hanging over
the pants of his blue uniform. His eyes
are cynical as he indulges in sharp,
pointless humor, knowing he can’t change
anything, he won’t save any of them.
Still, he ridicules and pontificates
to these kids, he knows their names,
self-chosen martyrs of the needle.
They ignore him: this is a pathetic
comedy routine no one enjoys.
Thirty minutes after the pig gives up,
the Black guy, the dealer, their
false messiah, arrives and surveys
his flock with calm but wary eyes.
His well-toned body remains alert.
He’s always late but he’s fast;
it’s like the strike of a cobra
when he hands over the goods
and pockets the green. His agile
hands move in rhythm, steady
and practiced as any magician’s.
Give us this day our daily fix.
The exchange is hardly visible
as he doles out the soft white poison.
As desired as any communion wafer.
The smack comes in crinkled glassine bags.
Their bodies are always turned to hide
the deed, quick, quick, a whirl of needy
hands shaking; is it the cold, anticipation,
fear? The symptoms of withdrawal
starting? “Dime bag, hey man, gimme 2,”
laced with god-knows-what.
The Black guy, cool but careful, cases
the park that is bathed in twilight now.
His muscles are tight and strong,
his baseball cap turned backwards.
He wears dark clothes, nondescript,
could be anyone. He finishes without
any fanfare, just another walk in the park,
and fades quickly from view.
The junkies scatter like cockroaches
when the light’s turned on,
speeding to grimy public bathrooms
stinking of urine, to shooting galleries
set up in abandoned warehouses,
to apartments that are simply
holding places, not for living in.
We are in your parent’s empty
one-bedroom small apartment,
They let you sleep on the couch.
You were once their bright pride
and joy, selected for your brains
to attend the Bronx High School
of Science. The framed photo
of Kennedy in the Rose Garden
welcoming you and the rest
of that group of students
hangs on the apartment wall.
Your parents will soon flee to Florida
to be rid of you, but you don’t
know of this desertion yet.
You tear off and roll up a bit
of cotton to be a filter.
You take off your leather belt
and tighten it like a cinch
around your arm, to reveal
a rolling vein in your forearm.
I watch as you put some cold water
in the spoon with the bent handle,
bent so you're less likely to spill
any of the precious contents.
The water will help dissolve
the powder. You hold the flame
of the lighter under the spoon
as steady as your condition allows.
I offer this light to you.
You take the cotton and draw up
the dissolved smack, through
the cotton, into the syringe.
Like a competent nurse,
you tap out all the air bubbles,
push the liquid to the sharp
tip of the hypodermic and- at last!
plunge the spike into your
vein, releasing the contents.
When you see blood, you pull
the needle out. AH! The rush!
And I know I’m Jesus’s son.
The intense blinding surge
of pleasure, then a cocoon
of warmth, complete relaxation,
nodding out, to dream, to sleep.
Your body grows weaker and weaker,
until you are no longer a flame
or even an ember—you’re just out.