We lined up our bottles on the black TV stand,
displayed empty what was once brown,
insides sap sticky.
Everyone who came through
our dented door envied
We said to our friends,
yours ain’t got nothing on ours
meaning we know how to drown
better than you, can sink our misery
and challenge it to buoy,
dare our throats to stay afloat.
Our collection gone be filled up
by the end of the week,
we bragged, thought being the first
of our families
justified our wreckage.
Just so they wouldn’t be able to damage us.
Every time we gulped the last
of a drink, we’d arrange our bottles
according to height,
without saying how difficult
this life was, without saying how easy
it was to make the body
about the author