after julio cortázar*
my bourbon
i drink it at a bar, alone
its translucent honey-color is an axolotl's eye
looking into me
and, like a cortázar story,
little by little,
my bourbon axolotl steals my body,
its soul stealing through my eyes to evict me from this
honestly-not-that-well-kept apart
ment
and i feel my bourbon axolotl eye replacing me
as i am drawn out into its glass prison
and i stare up as my bourbon turns me
gently in my glass
as my bourbon raises me to its lips
sips me
no longer winces
or even registers any emotion on a calm-liquid-surface face
eyes wet and flat and blank as a tumbler ******* deep
and i don't know where i'm going or what i'm becoming but
this feeling of spiraling and draining and emptying
is everything that i know
and there is less and less of me as bourbon stares down
cold
unsmiling
neat
and silently consumes me
and i am disappearing
and i am gone
and bourbon stands,
calm, but not serene,
and bourbon walks to my car, each step carefully measured,
and bourbon drives my car to my apartment
and bourbon sleeps in my bed and goes to my job and collects my paycheck
and bourbon falls into habit and routine
and bourbon feels my
empty.
but having a body, a life, is better than being trapped in bottles and glasses
it's probably better, anyway
and bourbon won't go back, won't trade flesh back for silica,
will keep living unfeeling behind glass-eye walls until skin and sinew unknit
and bourbon is so alien and content that
it never wonders if there is anything more,
never despairs for its ending road,
treasures every drop
bourbon calls this body, this life
top shelf
bourbon knows that **** ain't cheap
magical realism drinking poem partially inspired by a short story
