—I CLEANED UP MY SHELF WITH THE DUST

Ochre

The bottom of the tumbler is misted with amber liquid, a ghostly imprint that could be anything, mean anything, if you let your mind drift, especially with the bar lights turned low, shining ochre with him on a stool now for how many ever hours, this his fourth or fifth drink, his torso made of tinder or straw, something flammable and unreliable as he swirls the sheen of remaining whiskey into the likeness of his daughter’s face, her eyes blinking at him from the bottom of the glass, her mouth neither a smile or scorn, the same way it was the day he forbade her from seeing that boy again, the same way it might have been when she took his car through the storm, rounding the curve at Devil’s Elbow too fast, the vehicle catching air like a black cloud too heavy to float in the night sky.