Black Sambuca

The taste of licorice.
The sting of liquor.
I consider clinging to sobriety.
My hypocrisy, after all, is magnificent.
They smoke - the world blurs;
I condemn.

I sit with deep blue spirit in my right hand.
I wonder what it would be like to dance in the arms of a woman.
I recall two girls - both blonde, 
blue-eyed,
British.
My arms around their waists, my hands cradling flat stomachs.

They turn away.
The fumes sting my eyes.

My mind circles like a vulture over carrion thoughts.
If I inhale, alcohol burns my sinuses, searing into my skull.
I bite down another sip and wince at the taste,
at the heat spreading through my throat, into my chest.

The last sip will be a struggle - 
I gaze with apprehension into the glass depths.

It is done, and not so bad as I feared.
When this bottle is gone, there will be no more.


1994
© Lela Kaunitz