My drink of choice is wrath,
it goes down like fire, like medicinal
wine, like moonshine. No amount of hooch,
My Dear, can sew together a rip
of this magnitude. The wounds stay fresh
and taste of grass. The ground has recently
been trampled here and this body thrashed.
My bones are made of smoke and they shatter.
Mouth full of mud and silt, branches
and trees float through me. The cries of babies
on the riverbank float through me. Some
of us refuse to go quietly. We rise up
to tend our own fires, brush the tangled hair
of our adopted ghost daughters. Our fathers
wanted sons, our mothers wanted sons.
Our lungs are filled with insults, so we sink.
Crystal Condakes has been writing poetry since 7th grade study hall. She is a frequent contributor to The Improbable Places Poetry Tour in Beverly, MA. She has had work published in Oddball Magazine, The Prompt, and Madhat Lit.