Irish Car Bomb

In another version

I’d be blond, tits up

to my throat. Tattoos.



My grandmother calls me

Cherry. I am blood cells

in a jar, the stem you knot



with your tongue tonight

to impress some other

girl whose hair is less



shiny than mine.

Another round and

pool stick. I call



the shots. We don’t

serve that here.

You: all folded bills



and matchbooks.

In the tea light’s gleam,

we do Irish car bombs



and I think who names

these drinks now a days?

You say it’s supposed



to taste like a milkshake.

It doesn’t.