the Queen of Cups makes me
a drink. She does it all by eyeball,
as if she sees secret measurements
scored into the glass. All I can see
are etched tentacles of some
bathypelagic creature whose body
hides beyond the borders of the glass.
She knows what I like. Maker’s Mark,
sweet vermouth, the dark Italian cherries
almost candied in thick syrup.
I’ve been standing on the shore, I say,
trying to discern best practice, best
path, best philosophy. She pours
golden liquid over a glistening sphere of ice.
The ice cracks in the glass. She nods.
Not everything stays singular, she says,
not everything should. In goes
a cherry, a spoonful of ruby syrup.
She stirs the drink, sniffs it.
A small shrug. Another cherry.
You’re allowed more than one.
