by Sheryl St. Germain
His mother called me the day after he died in my house.
She was crying, shouting, saying I’d killed her son,
that I’d sold him drugs, that I might as well
have stuck the needle in him myself.
She said she hoped I would die.
She said someone should kill me.
I said he got the stuff from some homeless person.
I said I was an addict.
I said he was an addict.
I said he was my friend.