The whiskey hits me in the mouth

and down long arms

into my fingers,

pushing sad sad sad, tired feelings

and thoughts into my stomach.

I’m swimming in it.

Frozen tips on

thunder

birds’ wings

touch my spine.

So soft,

with wings of pain and hurt and damage,

but brushing gently-

a dog’s tail on a baby’s face.

You’re not here to drink it and

maybe you won’t drink it again,

but I am here.

This whiskey rides the lightning

and my soul feels

good.