To Time and Drinking

November—I can smell you in the air
like chamomile on a cup of tea
sending whiffs of silent merriment
swirling in a cloud of anticipation
for what a year it was, what a year it has been.

A prologue to Time
A summary of disbelief

My cup overflows from things I refuse to forget
and in my fragile porcelain I watch my memories
swim and wait to be ingested:
a drop for the festives in January
a toast to our April achievements,
a silent clink from the heartbreak we had in June
a drizzle to follow through like the annual
purification of this promise we call
the August rain.

“Where have the days gone to?”
“Have we been sleeping all the while?”
Careful what you let go—lest you wake up one fine morning
in November and feel the hollow sensation of life
slipping away like a dream; this eternal nightmare

I drew my lips closer to you, my drink
my familiar hemlock, and their words stir magic
together with the steam of this potion.
They tell us “for the moment, be brave.”
“But remember to surrender as well.”
How can one possibly stand in two places at one time?
They tell us, “To calm your nerves and help you recall
in case you have forgotten
,” and every single day
for the past one year, I wish I did not forget.

And here I am—afraid and telling
gulping from this tiny cup in one monstrous quaff;
the warmth slowly creeping through my tongue,
scraping the walls of my throat raw with panic and
urgency—hurting me and nothing more.

A prologue to Time
A summary of disbelief

It might be too early to hark
back to what a year it was, what a year
it has been. But deep inside of me,
it is a little too late for everything.


One thought on “To Time and Drinking

  1. Hey there! I’ve been following your website for some time now and finally got the courage to go ahead and give you a shout out from New Caney TX! Just wanted to tell you keep up the fantastic work! Love your brilliant writing, as always.


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