i’m gonna gather you up and
place you here like couplets on a page.
you and me in sweet embrace,
that burn in my throat, memories engaged—
of days, weeks, years, bitter debates of politicians
peeled away like scabs, purple haze.
dry cracking-crust/ fomented frothed-breath/ chords over-oiled
but it’s okay, this burn feels memorable, pleasurable—
lasting well into the night, never leaving my DNA,
the back of my throat cemented. whispers, hard and plastered.
whiskey douses, burns, coats my ever-present pain—
as the harsh, cold, loveless winter, brutalizes the windowpane.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
