drunk on whiskey tears

 
on the 7th day, God rested. on the 8th day, He created this corner,
this bar, & this darkness. He cast light upon the world, but allowed
that some of us must remain in the dire shadows. we who have
fought the most bitter battles, & suffered the most cruel love.

there’s a woman with long dark hair. when it hangs in loose Babylonian
curls, we know it’s raining. she wasn’t in the trenches with us, but she
knows what war is.

she sits by me ‘cause I tell her she’s beautiful & I call her baby. mostly,
we are unsure about her: if she comes here to drink in our circle & to
write, or if she’s one of the whores.

I know a few of the whores in town. they laid with me in military surplus
beds, & knew enough about the decadent substrata of men to ride me
to a verdant hilltop. some of the harlots have tattoos, & some sing in
the choir on Sunday.

so this woman with the lush vines framing her face, the denim jacket
with #87 on it for which I have no reference, drinks with me & appraises
the trenchant poems I show her. we make vague, half-drunk plans to
board the train one day, & ride it to the light of the farthest star.

at midnight, a man enters the bar, a stranger to our circle. with his
purchased drink, he approaches us. he whispers in her ear as he rubs
her back gently. she looks at me with eyes as hard as their grayness
will tolerate, but I don’t return her gaze. so she takes her purse &
they depart.

suddenly I feel the ghostly air beside me, that a moment ago was a
beautiful woman, & I wonder what it is inside me that would let her
walk away…


(Art: Bill Brandt)