Theresa Ilardi, Woman With The Bottle

Woman With The Bottle

I’m the woman with the bottle, sitting in the street with no place to go. That is what you see, if you even look that closely before quickly turning away.

I was my mother’s baby in pretty lace dresses from her sewing machine, ribboned pigtails and shiny patent leather shoes. Some say I was Daddy’s little girl, but hey, let’s not go there.

Brought shame onto my family— people shaking their heads, babies having babies, they said. I graduated Junior High, eight months full.

My son’s mother: happy and young making bottles, changing diapers, playing peek-a-boo after school. Not everyone thought that was too cool.

Became my husband’s wife: black eyes and bruises overnight. Oh that? Just slipped down the stairs. Yeah, and right into someone’s fist. He kept my belly filled, three more hostages into a house filled with rage and alcohol.

Uh-oh! BCW is knocking on my door. He can put it down for appearance’s sake. Me, I’m shaking like a leaf. One day at a time, fuck that! Can’t you see I need a drink?! Detoxes, rehabs, did them all. If nothing changes, nothing changes. I know who my true friends are: José Cuervo, Bud the Wiser, King the Cobra and let’s not forget kind old Georgi.

So now you see me on the street, the woman with the bottle. Dear God, perhaps it’s time to become— plain old me.