The dope calling to me again, junk sick, dirty
money clutched tightly in my sweaty palm, I find
myself in the subterranean apartment of the Troll.
The shelves that lined the stone walls were filled
with bottles of blood, a name on every bottle. The
Troll takes a bottle down as I walk in and I ask
what is up with this. He answers,
“This shipment of heroin came in mixed
with the blood of dead junkies; nothing
gets wasted except for our lives.”
I hesitate as he fills an eye
dropper with blood and hands
it my way. Ask if they used
the blood of junkies who had died with AIDS.
“Of course,” said the Troll, “but it’s
only the blood of junkies who died
of overdose; we mixed it with lemon dope
but no lemon juice is necessary. The acidity
of the blood boosts the high.” The sickness
fed my urgency and I watch as the blood
from the dropper disappears
into a metal spike plugged into my vein,
wait for the rush, watch my name
appear on one of the bottles as the Troll
moves his old wooden wheelchair
to the next customer, eyes yellow
with desire, who walks in the door.
“You’re gonna like this,” is the last thing
I hear him say.