A Glass

A culmination of Brazilian suns sits in her glass
as ice swirls in a whirlpool of stirs,
seeping out the sides
and melting into a puddle
that could flood a thousand nights
or stain the sleeves of the careless.
Glass clinks like a hundred bangles dangling
at the end of her slender wrist.
She wears the whiskey to match her shoes.


Its glow is as orange as her grandmother's ottoman
or a West Coast see-through tan
and lights the tip of her nose
sip after sip. . .
And the drink smells of the attic
where she was once a damsel
and is rescued only by last call.

The taste makes her cringe like
an old sailor getting a fresh tattoo.
She slams the glass onto the ancient, wooden tables
"Checkmate."
And the black and white tiles swallow her
as she sinks to the ground
when the lights turn up.