Tonight's Poet Corner: Cocktail Menu
Cocktail Menu
by Belinda Roddie
The truth is, I need that girl like I need
a shot of whiskey - burning all the way down,
leaving ulcers in my gut that somehow bring
on good pains. Coating my throat in sparks that
numb after they're done with their flight. I need
that girl like three rounds of tequila and lime,
with just enough salt. If I feel dizzy, then I ought
to thank her for the vertigo. Her body makes my
head spin like a carnival ride. As long as
I don't puke after the high I get, I'm good.
I need that girl like an Irish Carbomb slammed into
my jaw. The shot glass quivers like a loose tooth
against my own incisors. I feel the impact of the brim
of the stein more than the bite of the alcohol at first,
and the tremors don't stop; my heart beats out angry
earthquakes that crush the Richter scale with steel-toed
boots. I get the urge to down another one despite
the fact that
1. Irish Carbombs don't really taste
that good, anyway, except for the last part, and
we always cling to the aftertaste like it's the nectar
of a horny Zeus.
2. That drink's name is kind of inconsiderate, when
you think about it; I mean, if you tried to order
something like that in Belfast, they'd beat your
ass and caber toss you out of the pub faster than you
can say, "But caber tossing's Scottish, not Irish!" and
3. Drinking even just one Irish Carbomb is a really
stupid fucking idea. But in the moment, the innards of
your intestines are pulled tightly enough to make you
feel like helium's caught in your diaphragm. Instead
of changing the pitch of your voice, it makes you float.
You're deluged with the ecstasy of a depleting
resource, and you love it, because if you look at her
again by the bar, or at the bus stop, or in a brand new
photo on social media, you don't feel so bad about
being drunk anymore. And if you wind up in bed
with her, you'll justify each move under the sheets
like you're trying not to be mummified by your own
guilt. You don't want that shroud wound around your
shoulders like a widow's veil, but you may as well
put your discipline in the grave where it belongs.
And maybe leave it a mini bottle of Kahlua as
an offering because it can't digest a good White Russian
in its state. She may seem worth it, at least from
the perspective of your fogged up beer goggles
across the room. But that girl isn't her. She never
can be, never will be. She'll cost you too much.
She'll only give you temporary amnesia before all
the memories that matter come flooding back.
She'll break up friendships and make your family
question your values. And when you finally wake
up, you'll figure out how much you've lost in fewer
than twenty-four hours, all because you couldn't stay
sober long enough to recognize your mistakes.
In the end, what I'm saying is this: That girl's not
my girl. And I need my girl more than a night out
with neon in my hair and bad music in my ears
and an overpriced pint of hard cider in my left hand.
I need my girl like I need
water. She quenches my thirst, above all else. She doesn't
warp my poor brain to the point of non-sequiturs and
half-hearted audience suggestions for the scene. If you
freeze water, it can go with anything - whiskey on
the rocks can be way nicer than neat. If I'm at the end
of my daily marathon, and I feel my lungs wither
like flowers that forgot how to blossom during another
California drought, I know that my girl is there, at the
finish line, to make me bloom again with her lips.
Sweeter than a spring rain. As sating as a dip into
the deepest pool in my mental Grand Canyon. And
most of all, crisp and cool enough to pull the heat
out of my pores and put it back in my chest where
it belongs - where my heartbeat stays steady but plays
a song I'm familiar with. So that girl can give her
cocktail to another tipsy sap, because I'm taking my tall
drink of water out - and we're getting margaritas.
by Belinda Roddie
The truth is, I need that girl like I need
a shot of whiskey - burning all the way down,
leaving ulcers in my gut that somehow bring
on good pains. Coating my throat in sparks that
numb after they're done with their flight. I need
that girl like three rounds of tequila and lime,
with just enough salt. If I feel dizzy, then I ought
to thank her for the vertigo. Her body makes my
head spin like a carnival ride. As long as
I don't puke after the high I get, I'm good.
I need that girl like an Irish Carbomb slammed into
my jaw. The shot glass quivers like a loose tooth
against my own incisors. I feel the impact of the brim
of the stein more than the bite of the alcohol at first,
and the tremors don't stop; my heart beats out angry
earthquakes that crush the Richter scale with steel-toed
boots. I get the urge to down another one despite
the fact that
1. Irish Carbombs don't really taste
that good, anyway, except for the last part, and
we always cling to the aftertaste like it's the nectar
of a horny Zeus.
2. That drink's name is kind of inconsiderate, when
you think about it; I mean, if you tried to order
something like that in Belfast, they'd beat your
ass and caber toss you out of the pub faster than you
can say, "But caber tossing's Scottish, not Irish!" and
3. Drinking even just one Irish Carbomb is a really
stupid fucking idea. But in the moment, the innards of
your intestines are pulled tightly enough to make you
feel like helium's caught in your diaphragm. Instead
of changing the pitch of your voice, it makes you float.
You're deluged with the ecstasy of a depleting
resource, and you love it, because if you look at her
again by the bar, or at the bus stop, or in a brand new
photo on social media, you don't feel so bad about
being drunk anymore. And if you wind up in bed
with her, you'll justify each move under the sheets
like you're trying not to be mummified by your own
guilt. You don't want that shroud wound around your
shoulders like a widow's veil, but you may as well
put your discipline in the grave where it belongs.
And maybe leave it a mini bottle of Kahlua as
an offering because it can't digest a good White Russian
in its state. She may seem worth it, at least from
the perspective of your fogged up beer goggles
across the room. But that girl isn't her. She never
can be, never will be. She'll cost you too much.
She'll only give you temporary amnesia before all
the memories that matter come flooding back.
She'll break up friendships and make your family
question your values. And when you finally wake
up, you'll figure out how much you've lost in fewer
than twenty-four hours, all because you couldn't stay
sober long enough to recognize your mistakes.
In the end, what I'm saying is this: That girl's not
my girl. And I need my girl more than a night out
with neon in my hair and bad music in my ears
and an overpriced pint of hard cider in my left hand.
I need my girl like I need
water. She quenches my thirst, above all else. She doesn't
warp my poor brain to the point of non-sequiturs and
half-hearted audience suggestions for the scene. If you
freeze water, it can go with anything - whiskey on
the rocks can be way nicer than neat. If I'm at the end
of my daily marathon, and I feel my lungs wither
like flowers that forgot how to blossom during another
California drought, I know that my girl is there, at the
finish line, to make me bloom again with her lips.
Sweeter than a spring rain. As sating as a dip into
the deepest pool in my mental Grand Canyon. And
most of all, crisp and cool enough to pull the heat
out of my pores and put it back in my chest where
it belongs - where my heartbeat stays steady but plays
a song I'm familiar with. So that girl can give her
cocktail to another tipsy sap, because I'm taking my tall
drink of water out - and we're getting margaritas.
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