--and I'd slip away
to savor a drunken moment
a taste, the barest whisper
--and I'd reel
with an all-too-steady
sense of grace
as if I carried the firelit
faces of my ancestors--in my blood
woven in bone, every moment made
with a firepit, begging flame
a hole for spirits--like an alcoholic
I have been made,
to fall at the first swallow
(by myself, for you)
to revel steady in the
company of thirst
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