UISGUE BEATHA*
(*Gaelic word for whiskey, literally: "Water of Life")

The water I come from grows smaller; a puddle, rivulet or mug.
What glitters in strips across rooftops, on dirty
ponchos and slow-breaking waves of faces, is not the
same as what once ran from house gutters, where I
cupped my hands in some small semblance of prayer,
not the same as the stream that slid through dark
curves of earth, where the red lizard ranand doves were left in bloody tangles as totems or offerings, "Don't go beyond this."

The old women called me from the woods,
their china teeth stained with sugar and tea.
All I found were pine needles and the terrifying eyes
of crows. The older kids, stinking of gasoline,
tried to teach me how to strangle birds,
but I wouldn't listen.

I lay down beneath the flag of my country:
a red-checkered picnic cloth.
I saw my ancestors curled on it, amidst the sharp-
edged grass by the river bank, applauding fireworks,
and later, artillery shells.

I saw them pass milk and bourbon, cold chicken,
fresh butter spooled out beneath the fading sun.
I saw them act amazed when their men stared out
at them like grey-coated ghosts from newspapers and
wanted posters, but the eyes, a shunted, dense anger, were of a color
they poured into them, same as the bourbon.

There were questions I had from the back-seat, about
funerals and grand-ma's panties.
I forgot them. I drove around,
Schlitz and finger-fucking behind grave stones.There were fire-works, video-blips of exploded towns,
broken teeth of the quarter-back I never wanted to
be. There was a thirst I learned
for drink, furious, my tongue
plying the dryness between my father's ribs.
Now the water comes, and I can't leave it.
Endure me.