Sonnet of a Godmother
Vodka tastes a bit like battery acid on its own,
but you add amaretto to it, and it opens up
like a flowering wound, or a young girl looking for love.
She cradles the glass while it condenses in her bones,
sucks it down quickly, and again.
Her cheeks flush and she’s red enough
for comradery as she bellies up, plays tough
at the bars in Hollywood, challenges men
to dart games under the pale red lights,
pulls them into the bathroom stalls
for quick fixes of adrenaline,
as they pull up her skirt, she eases her fight
for it’s just another night after all
and some things are worse than consumption.