Cocktails
The round rim of explanation,
the first fiery-sour slurps of
revelation over the
revolution of the little
black dress

her ankles droop
but no one is looking
at her feet, just the sound
her shoes make on the granite
black dust roadway or the
marble façade of foreheads
laid out on top of shag carpeting.

She thinks about Siberia
when he kisses the back of
her shoulder, bra strap askew -

he moves through her with
a slow quickness

and the sepia tongue of booze
laps at the dirty bar floor, the curve
of her palm soft against the ice
of the glass surface, blasé like
snow, or milky eyelids,

there is a cold heat outside
where the men sweat out
women; where women pool
under feet, fall through the
cracks of storm drains, cleanse
you through the spouts of your
showerdrains, fall back through
if they are not careful, but some
just cling to you for fear or
boredom.

She pulses through the room
like a noise; glass in hand,
metaphorically suicidal though
you'll never taste it on the soft
shape she takes while open mouthed
and gaping.