Consider the margarita glass:

among the hundreds of cups it stands

like the four-eyed geek you were ten years ago

in the headlights of a high school kegger.

It has none of the weight of a beer glass

nor its fundamental thick-sided dishonesty.

It has not the whiskey glass’ dart-like precision and heft.

With its rim dipped in salt it is the transparent mouth

of a bottom-feeding fish in a chemical drainage pond. Yet

filled, it takes on the air of a quick, remorseless romance.

There are those who insist this glass belongs south.

Probably not. It’s comfortable in my hand right here

in Chi-Chi’s, surrounded by professional wrestling,

St. Patrick’s Day mobiles that don’t move,

this inexcusable bar on Monday afternoon, my car dead,

the check bad, love four hundred miles east of here.

You Might Also Enjoy

Watching Over

Linda Hogan

This land I watch over / is a place with old stories / and plant medicine. / It is earth a mountain lion walks . . .


Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.