Huddled in the Sword Room of MOTR Pub, the
voices of the poets reading at the monthly Word of Mouth Cincinnati
event remain at the volume usually reserved for intimate conversations
in domestic settings, barely carrying sound across the small
cellar-esque basement of the Over-the-Rhine bar.
I was celebrating the fruition of what I
had recently recognized as my life-long dream of becoming an authentic
life coach by printing my online diploma, when there was a knock at the
door. “Come in,” I said. With his white shirt and well-coiffed speckled
gray hair, how could I not recognize him?
I wasn’t supposed to be kissing my stepsister. No, it was supposed to be one of her friends, The Twins. Which one I wasn’t sure, but, no matter, she chickened out and my stepsister suggested herself as a replacement. Thus, we lay in the basement making out, my head swimming with the absurdity of it all.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: Mere weeks following my debut in these pages, the alternate title to which might have been “In Defense of Suicide,” I almost died by my own hand. The little I do remember has me in front of a wooden door with two rectangle panes of glass, poised to throw a punch, thinking you’ve broke your hand twice, try something different. Thus, the glass.