Grey Sparrow Journal

First Published Issue 2, Fall 2009

Mimi Vaquer

If my life were a cigarette, it would be unfiltered

sucked halfway down

orange lava tip holding tight

to its dead ashes.

Or a vodka rocks tall glass,

its ice foundation peeking through the

receding spirit tide, glass

beady with perspiration.

Maybe even a half tank of gas,

premium unleaded

marinating in a parked car,

afraid to fall below the empty line--

and if minutes were calories,

I would mete them out with a Prufrock spoon

and sip the last bits of sweet

from each confection of time. 

With Kesey or Follett

I learned not to add an S,

yet I can’t recite anything

of cuckoo’s nests or needle’s eyes.

I can trip on a Greek letter or

find my foot in a Hebrew month.

Still, I dare to dance with Will

on a black and white morning

leaving fingerprints smudged on my glass.

Ink is liquid confidence

more than a drink

or an ale in a pub with

Pierre’s wife (abbr.)

Ewers, epees, what to do

with the E’s

or the ease of a M.A.S.H. or a Maude.

At least, I’ve found, I know my Alans.