Letter to My Blackout

Dear sip, dear shotgun, dear pound:

beneath the house, the kegs roll in;

the party flips its switches down.

When drunk comes, it comes as sound,

a chord, a liftoff. I ride the rim,

dear sip, dear shotgun, dear pound.

He could be anyone, and he abounds.

I slip inside a dance with him.

The party flips its switches down.

Let’s go, he says, upstairs now.

My cup spills. My shirt is skin.

Dear sip, dear shotgun, dear pound,

I won’t. Get lucky. Get found.

But kegs run out, the hour brims,

the party flips its switches down,

his hips to mine, his arms around,

a song ends, and dark begins—

dear sip, dear shotgun, dear pound,

the party flips its switches down.