by Belinda Roddie
Those two girls are mighty handsome
in their burgundy tuxes, drinking
whiskey with their fingers dipped
in silver. They look ready for
a fancy gala where the champagne
flows from a giant fountain in
the middle of the room.
I want to talk to them, but my tongue
is glued to the bottom of my mouth.
This booze is sticky against my gums.
Meanwhile, I see one of the dappers
nip the other on the nape of her neck.
Someone get me a huge pitcher of sangria:
I want to toast them with a beverage that's
as dark as blood. The tails of their coats
bristle like ribbons of carnage in the air-
conditioned bar, Every head is turned,
and every heart is justly stopped.