I wouldn’t be here. Or not like this?
Grandma’s blonde ringlets had gone bald,
her teeth missing slots, her eyes—
gray-blue rime.
My Umatilla grandfather
who had one leg, lived down the road,
hobbled to her heroin loyally.
If It Wasn’t for Heroin
October 26, 2026
Issue 32, Issue 32 Poetry, Poetry
