Who’d want a burnt chest?
Soaked in vodka, an old fire
barely keeping itself alive.
His shot-out liver might do him in.
At first, it rubs him raw, but it’s an
always-early clock come December.
He needs an ember chest for the ice.
Published in Rejection Letters
Review from Taylor Byas
"This poem is a shot itself - small, but has enough fire to warm me up. I’m so taken with the voice of this poem, the way it feels like someone at the bar has started telling me about their friend after they’ve had a couple of drinks. There’s a feeling of familiarity here that’s irresistible. And let’s face it; “His shot-out liver might do him in” is absolutely a phrase I can hear emerging from bar chatter. This poem plops me down on that bar stool and orders the shot for me."