Writer, researcher, music lover, cancer survivor with CMMRD ("double" Lynch syndrome)
the cold glass on my wet bottom lip
my top lip enveloping – and then I tip
the scent stings my nostrils and
my teeth welcome it
head goes back
a slow swallow
and the roof
of my mouth
goes numb
the taste
is blunt
and then
nothing
matters
anymore.
maybe I am a mess
but I love these
nights.
I’m just trying to keep afloat today.
There is a reason why the number twelve
is at the top of the clock face.
It’s because each hour is an aspiration,
every day completion an accomplishment.
but this is
mouth-numbingly painful
I write a poem; type out my thoughts
one-handed, a glass of bourbon in the
other. Tap out the title at the top and
declare the date and time of writing at
the bottom. An old ritual. Open a new
document. Write another. Add my time-
stamp. I write a blog post. Later I decide
I’m drunk and it isn’t very good, so I edit
it, still drunk. It’s probably better. I start
on the Scotch. Write another poem.
Restart the soul-spilling.
The timestamps get later and later.
© 2024 Sam Alexandra Rose
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