Halfabecedarian Love Letter
Allie, clutch me with your suitcase hand and tell me,
Bring the bazooka and your last swimming fish.
Chap my lips in a long, sweating kiss and
dare to dare me into your plans. Love’s intentions are best
explained by semaphore or rock-paper-scissors—
forget those boys at the bar and their meaningless kung fu kicks.
Get thee to a distillery. Follow my whiskey fingers
home where a barroom of bourbon-high-fives slap
in unison for you. Here’s what I’ll offer your mouth:
juniper berries I’ve smashed into gin, the plumpest
King’s Bay squid. Let’s drizzle ourselves inky
love letters and never mention the mess.