Poetry: Selections from James Roach

My Own Hands Put the Monsters in My Mouth

I cannot blame the beasts

at the bottom of the bottles

if my own hands put the monsters in my mouth.

Among the whispers of bartenders,

I was a warning label,

more comfortable on a barstool

than at home.

At Nathan’s party,

under disco lights and 90’s R&B,

I repeatedly tried to put my lips on someone

who didn’t want them,

not noticing then

her eyes turning from kindness

to fearful.

A friend drove me home,

had to pull over so I could throw up

all the bad decisions  I don’t remember.

At Heather’s wedding, I took to the rhythm

of a hurricane,

a thundering chaos of loneliness.

I drowned the other guests

in my upcoming divorce,

I hit on people

I wasn’t attracted to,

and while better behaved guests

used paddleboards on the still water,

I got sick in Puget Sound.

I was graced

with a safe way home,

a gift I didn’t deserve.

I was always given

a ghost of Christmas past tour

of everything I lost sight of,

the theme of my life:

I needed other people to tell me

how I was living it. 

Shame in Seven Stanzas

1. The day I got my new Honda Fit, 

I drove it everywhere but home,

where my eventual divorce 

was waiting to be let in

after locking himself out.  

2. I wanted to show everyone 

the shine of its fresh coat

of blackberry pearl paint,

the way it didn’t scream 

like my old car,

a piece of cheap metal that I’m shocked 

scraped through from the midwest 

to Washington

without digging its own grave. 

3. I threw my new rule

of no eating in the car

out the window. 

Dog hair collected 

on the seats

and food messes 

fell through the cracks, 

and no matter how often 

I detailed the inside, 

it still smelled of dog vomit

and resentment.

4. Liquor-soaked and behind the wheel, 

first DUI in my pocket. 

The next day, 

I retraced my steps in the rain 

to the towing place,

my anxiety engine heavy in my body. 

I learned my lesson 

for a few months,

went back to the comfort of a barstool,

never intending to stop forever. 

Just until the fear left. 

5. My parents visited 

just days after I put my dog to sleep.

At dinner in Port Townsend, 

my mom told me I should

get rid of my gut.

My aunt and uncle 

were witnesses

to her accidental cruelty

that burrowed into me,

attached itself to my insides. 

After goodbyes, 

I drove the hour back to Olympia, 

back to the bar,

to fill the same gut

with too much beer

to drive home safely. 

6. I woke up the next morning

barely remembering the sound

of metal and plastic crunching 

against the miles between 

the bar and the driveway. 

My front bumper hanging, 

a noose of regret.

New grooves in the rubber 

of my tires told me

I wouldn’t be going anywhere that day. 

7. I have a picture.

It is a reminder 

of the part of the story

I’m not allowed to tell. 

It is a thousand words of 

what have I done?

James Roach (he/him) is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He dug up his midwest roots to live in Olympia, Wa., not too far from some sleepy volcanoes and beaches to write home about.