Vodka Fourth

Not the first Fourth without you, but the first Independence
since we finally split apart, I remember because the weeks
between messages grew like the anxiety you feel between
a round’s fuse being painstakingly sparked then that sorrowful
scream it sends up throughout the cold night's air before it
makes a Jesus pose of light and flame and sound. The door
never came to life again after you walked out. Fireworks
we bought sat in the car's trunk thinking their sentence
commuted. You were driving around and decided to stop

at my apartment, you said, and I drove like a missile, but
as I arrived you left taking only your bottle of vodka. I sat
in the dark on the couch you sat on and waited for a pardon,
for you to call, for you to say nevermind. My end was lit
and you weren't going to come running back to stop this.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

The rapid pace of the piece, with it's run-on lining and parade of images, gives the feel of something being filtered through the lens of memory. There is just the touch of humor to keep the weight of all this from being overwhelming, with the side benefit of making the feel of the narrator's loss that much more pungent. Fine stuff, indeed.