It’ll kick your ass, Brice said,
when he handed me the drink.
Moonshine, apple juice, something
that turned it backyard lake water
green. The scream of cicadas & another
summer sifts
through the closed veranda
doors, the uninsulated walls
of my friend’s cheap apartment. Outside
Brice & our other drunken friends jump,
handholding, off the roof.
We try to keep the yells & the damp night
out. The sky hangs low. Foggy
& moonless. We have vanished from her party, afraid
of heights & broken bones, thighs pressed
together on this threadbare chair.
I avoid the shape of her lips
in an open laugh, stare
instead at condensation falling
around my drink on the stained oak table,
ignore her skin on mine. Elbows hooked, sweat
pools where the crooks touch.
Our knees knock together
in rhythmless percussion.
Outside shrieks invade.
I think, not even this swamp water
drink will get me roof-jumping drunk.
But imagine
seeing her midair
in the heavy velvet night.
