It was just for one night in that dimly lit izakaya that his blood pressure was elevated to the dizzying heights of Nanda Devi — the snowy summit that he used to climb.
Booze blew through his nostrils as he drank one too many shots of sake and wrapped his arms around a woman with an ivory face — the white paint of which he did not peel away with his fingertips before that night.
But the paint was peeling and the flakes were falling from the wall in the master bedroom that night where his wife was still on her knees, praying that Mr. Sakhoby will have safety on his business trip — she did not rest her aching joints on satin sheets.
Hers was not the only sheets left untouched, for out in the streets that very night was his firstborn — and only — son biking around in the back alleys with his newly adopted blood brothers and getting his first taste of ecstasy — to jump out of the marbled cell and fly away.
Neither Mrs. nor Sakhoby Jr. knew how in that night his blood pressure shot up in a flurry of ecstatic kisses, and how in the land where the sun rises he could do nothing but leave before the cock crowed.
This was an original poem exploring the intersection between family disintegration and substance abuse.
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