Nil By Mouth

Not a drop can pass my lips 

No more diving into the glass

so I can see and touch the bottom

it’s smoothness it’s coldness on my fingertips

I collide with ice cubes on my ascent

Now I’ve climbed up and over the condensation on the rim

I can no longer taste the liquid inside. 

I can no longer smell it, nor feel it in my blood

bubbling under the surface to make me a madman,

To make me a crier, a spitter of curses

to make me an abuser of fences, doors and windows.

I am no longer attuned to the sensory overload 

of the vodka-and- lime

I am no more a drinker than a dying man in the desert.