Here’s a poem I wrote more than several years ago around this time of year. I’m sharing it in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.

WHISKEY-PROOF

Not because I need its deep heat, or mindful spice −
it’s not replenishing I want but something more

potent, bottled up and dangerous − to singe
the sweetness I’ve got in cluttered abundance, busted,

swollen heart-caged, admitting all your tired
and glazed, soul exhibits Z-A. Lined up, the doses sing,

perfect portions of measurable suffering, one song,
each shot: I know, I know, I know. The bartender

does, also. She fields pain, nightly eases each of us
to ideal heart rate, zoned in lone, loaned longing.

Bar-side, her grain-hued mane soothes light behind
our small translucent glasses, color of what will

be alternative, alternate − darker, honeyed, smoked
and riotous. And this is where we enter, us, fair and raven

drinkers − students, really, my friend says − taps his glass
on the battered bar, an amber capsule held anxious

in toast’s glint pause, I’m just a damn student,
knowing nothing’s more desiring than grasping there’s forever

still to learn, in relentless spilled vessels, dosage’s burn.