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Irish Car Bomb

Carly Sachs

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.

Carly Sachs

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