Witness of Consumption
God forbid the scenery
this is not a cemetery
Like the bourbon that’s been poured over ice
or the leaves that hang onto the branch in winter
there is a finished feeling
Like after eating a turkey sandwich
on rye bread
If it weren’t for the rye bread
there would be less to this idea of a sandwich
Now I am part of the scenery and your mother is in a dark
room
sitting in an armchair as if in her grave this will be her
position
The desperate experiment is the repetition
the bourbon-color sky, the bourbon-color clouds,
the bourbon-color house with bourbon-color rugs and walls
and the sound of ice freezing in the freezer
the crackling sound of bourbon
in a glass on the kitchen counter the color of bourbon
the melted ice and turkey sandwich on rye
is what we remember finding
after the death of your mother
and her demise was not sudden
in fact it was the slowest death
it was like Death was born
then poured herself a drink
sat on the couch
and awaited our arrival
— Nicole Santalucia