We rinse the glasses from which we will drink affordable whiskey with scotch or absinthe, my love and I, the less than a swallow left of good liquor scenting the whole cocktail. What intoxication we afford each other cannot be excess or impure. * A dried-out, overused river runs through, or rather, idles in, our small city where we never intended to settle. Birds alight on odorous pools stranded between mudflats, a baptism in reverse—the body that enters proclaiming the water clean. They dip down plumed heads to say this is enough. * The pigeons, so adaptable, delight in dropped scraps. While we— however many lovers late in life —rub the rims of Sazeracs with an orange’s remaining peel, arousing a perfume. Copyright © 2014 by Rose McLarney. Used with permission of the author. |
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