She tasted like whiskey—
The kind my grandmother drinks on hot days
When her children are too ungrateful
And her grandchildren are too petulant.

She was a c***tail mix
Of youthful rebellion and dependency;
Of never giving a damn and giving too many;
Of true love and true demise;
Of a thousand ill-fated contradictions.

She was smooth as the cheap liquor
You’d hire some bum to buy from the gas station,
Which is to say, not smooth at all.

She burned like tequila
But you never wanted to chase her down,
Afraid you’d forget the feel of her mouth
Or the biting remarks she hid behind
Or the sensation of her roaming hands
Or the last time you saw her cry.

She was pure intoxication.
I was sent stumbling with every
Careless flick of her strawberry hair,
Haphazard kiss I nearly missed,
Glint of her conniving eyes,
And trying, shouting night.

And now I’m sleeping at the bottom of bottles
Trying to find her again in the fog—
Trying to find that feeling of walking on air
And drowning at the same time.