Saturday, June 24, 2017

On Alcohol by Sam Sax

my first drink was in my mother
my next, my bris. doctor spread red
wine across my lips. took my foreskin

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every time i drink     i lose something

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no one knows the origins of alcohol. tho surely an accident
before sacrament. agricultural apocrypha. enough grain stored up
for it to get weird in the cistern. rot gospel. god water

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brandy was used to treat everything
from colds to pneumonia
frostbite to snake bites

tb patients were placed on ethanol drips
tonics & cough medicines
spooned into the crying mouths of children

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each friday in synagogue a prayer for red
at dinner, the cemetery, the kitchen
spirits

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how many times have i woke
strange in an unfamiliar bed?
my head neolithic

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my grandfather died with a bottle in one hand
& flowers in the other. he called his drink his medicine
he called his woman
    she locked the door

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i can only half blame alcohol for my overdose
the other half is my own hand
that poured the codeine    that lifted the red plastic again & again &

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i’m trying to understand pleasure     it comes back
in flashes    every jean button thumbed open to reveal
a different man     every slurred & furious permission

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i was sober a year before [          ] died

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every time i drink     i lose someone

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if you look close at the process of fermentation
you’ll see tiny animals destroying the living body
until it’s transformed into something more volatile

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the wino outside the liquor store
mistakes me for his son