Crank

Pagan made
Crystal Meth
Snorted
Right before I attacked
A giant pile of wood
With a large steel-head axe
In my neighbor’s yard
For a price agreed upon
The week before.

Biker fuel.

Petrol drip
In the back of my throat
As I swung the tool
Over and over
Splitting logs
And stacking the wedges
In a prodigious heap
Against the old stone wall
In the after-school sun
That late autumn
Decades ago.

Glass.

I only stopped
To crush more.

Happy clear shivers
Kept me focused
While Dead Kennedy’s
Ripped out of my Panasonic
Ghetto blaster
As my fingers and palms
Blistered
And the wood
Tore at my flesh
The pile of cut logs receding
As I put the final chocks
Onto the mountain
Fingers still curled and deformed
Hands oozing water and blood
Tendons in my arms
Pulled painfully taut.

The afternoon had passed.

The power
Of ingredients found
Under the kitchen sink
In the garage
And medicine cabinet
Could make you do things
You’d never even imagine.

Things that make a mother cry.

It was weeks
Before I was completely healed.