That first sip of liquor

nibble of cake

bead of blood under the sharp blade

is our remembering.

Remembering

that first time

we belonged; we were perfect; we had a modicum of control.

That first sip of liquor

nibble of cake

bead of blood under the sharp blade

is our forgetting.

Forgetting

that we hover on the periphery,

flawed and powerless.

The second sip,

the second bite,

the blood sluicing,

is our punishment,

our loathing,

our attempt at escape.

We do not see

that we do belong

to ourselves

to the world

that we are every wild glimmer of forefathers and mothers,

the stars, the mountains, the bees.

So we sip and chew and cut (and more),

receding into the ether that was once us,

that was once love,

only to awaken,

with a renewed sense of failure

that we are NOT

those who belong

those who are perfect

those who command.

We are the cast-offs,

clasping meager suitcases, crestfallen,

while the golden ones, in their gleaming gilded chariots,

depart for greener pastures,

smiling.

And so we crumble into nothingness,

hidden amongst the din

of the multitudes that are not us

and sip and bite and cut anew.

Colleen Sohn

 ...

Alternate title – “After Watching Too Much Mad Men“