Whiskey is flint:
first sip snaps spark,
second catches – my belly
a hunk of dried moss
gnawed by flame.
Tinderbox innards
so hot flesh glows
red between ribs.
No mouth to this long chimney.
Smoke climbs, socks in
mind, memory.
I pour and swallow,
not dousing the blaze
but fanning its fury.
1 comment:
I like the way you work with this metaphor. I did stumble over the second line, though-- it looks fine on the page, but sound-wise it's a bit of a tongue-twister. You might want a different verb there (even though 'snaps' is a good one).
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