Whiskey - Martha Grover


virtuosity for the uninsured

we are buckets filling up with ourselves

drinking is the art of elimination

what is left? 

belligerent joy

and if thats good enough


and the moon is

a white bone 

whittled down to a hairpin

stitching the constellations into the sky above

the seven eleven 


I had a see saw lung

the twinkling of a jaw bone,

and you and your body,

we were huddled, not together

as if around the first fire

ever built