Whiskey, mother.

you drank through a straw

dipped deep into your pink, plastic tumbler.



straws were for kids, I had thought,

till one day

I reached-

while you were in the restroom-

for the glistening gold

whiskey.

I watched it slosh near the edge

splashing

brilliant!

-all but for the stench-

near my nose

onto my lip.



Shock, spit, sputter.

The burn swept rapid hands

through my gut as I shuttered,

ache pressing hot tears to surface,

then stream their tiny

trails

of incriminating saltiness.