Swallows
sitting in a bar on Rue Lepic with a glass of cheap pastis. the water hits the liquor and turns it cloudy; a yellow, curdled swirl. it tastes heavy—fennel, aniseed, a bitter medicine that catches the back of the throat. it hits the same way an old road hits your boots when you’ve tramped it
Inducing a Migraine
there she is behind the marked oak bar, that Irish angel with the black hair falling like midnight rain, serving up the warmest smile you ever saw, pulling a perfect pint, slow and creamy, her eyes shining like Dionysus himself in drag, pouring out the madness. red wine flowing free now, warm in the throat,