The Last Word

As the frost condenses
on the wall of the shaker,

you wonder where all this
will lead. You pour the drink

into the coupe and sip.
You’re not sure what it means

to make choices anymore.
You just make these cocktails

and they really are beautiful,
a delicate art, fleeting

as the crystals of half-ice
that linger in the fresh glass

for a moment and are gone.
It feels like more and more

of them are gone. In Ohio
the few lone weeks of spring

turn hot, mourning doves
and your smoldering sadness.

The cicadas will eat everything
to fuel their desire — did you ever

even once know what to do?