Skip Navigation
 

From 'Memorabilia' Section VIII

by David L. Paxton

Let it down. Let it go. If it were to fall off
And out among the millions, would it still be worth
The whiskey? We measure it up with ice, the life
Inside the water aged under a dead man’s breath.

I’m not dead yet, though, and that liquid gives kisses
Like caramel and pine nuts and fingers across
My tongue caressing my pink mouth. And it teases
Me into another kiss when I’ve kissed sadness.

Delicate cog of agog naturality,
Pardon me dear, may I have another tumbler
Of the costly stuff in that bottle so shiny?
Goose flesh and shiver until the night is over.

I have those thrusting impulses, but why hide trends
When I can either lie out passed out, or lie by
You when I realize lappable liquid depends
Solely on the source? Could it be from a handy

Bottle or from the thighs only I can taste from?
Remorseful from this heart? No…not even shameful.
Both are earthly tastes smelling flesh or a bloom

From a peach tree. I seethe with hysterical thrill.