Schnapps with Milk

Take the weight that you’re dying
Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday, tomorrow
like a kind of force you won’t need
to push a tank up a hill with.
Smell the evil the first war was, take the
second as a box of sparkly barrettes
that sever your skin like
I’m sorry. We’re all sorry.
The world reaches for his bourbon.
Or ginger ale. A cracker.
Everyone is sorry for what they
didn’t create. The best knockout
in Brooklyn fought a fight
for you once. Now he throws
an underhand in your name.
Laughs. Cries. Those are the same
when you’re dying. The separate
motions meld. Melt like two
red glass candies under sun
into one red like a bit of bathroom
window punched out. Fruit
punch hued. You said every generation
after the Civil war feels it is about to inherit
the earth but really the earth
inherits us. Forget it. Forget
but the very good. Borrow the
Palamountain’s dog—the black retriever
for a weekend in Vermont.
Watch the fight on TV.

Alexandra A. Reinecke is a writer and journalist who uses writing as a tool to encourage empathy and affect positive change.
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