O single-malt miracle, gentlest of panaceas,
your remedy moves through me
slow and warm, a glacial thaw
loosening great boulders of thought,
leaving chunks of frozen centuries in your wake.
One more sip and you glide along my coast,
clear a path for the tiny feet of
reindeer moving south, leaving hoof prints
in my tender tundra.
The sweet fuzz of their antlers
lingers in my mouth.


 This poem appeared in Mad Blood, Issue #3, and in the collection My Career as a Pendulum.

Photo credit: Information not available, see

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *