Whiskey tastes like the country–
rolling fields of crops laid before the eye,
durable softness of broken cowboy boots,
cedar and sweat and salty tangs
of the come-to-life recipes
Grandma handed your newly-wed
Mama too many moons ago,
the heat of July’s sun and the warm
scent of home it left on his skin
after a day beneath it,
the silence of the moon and the dance
of the lightning bugs as you loved
and contemplated and contemplated
love under the stars’ eternal gaze,
mud’s squish of protest as it sank
into the souls of your feet,
the hot pursuit of a frog,
Whiskey tastes like everything
the dreams of the adventurers,
the desires of the hopeful,
the aching of the mourners.
The decadent and sour tastes
of Life lingers and teases
every drop as it travels
down my throat
and into my veins,
infecting and effecting me
with the history of the sippers
before me and the uncertain
curiosity of where one more
glass would take me.
Whiskey tastes like Heaven
taking me up and pulling me down,
leaving me stuck in the mortal middle.
So, there you have it.
Whiskey tastes like you.