If there was no consequence
I would recreate the margarita:
Substitute the juice of a whole lime
with freshly squeezed humor
One part triple sec; sex
Two parts tequila; hold
Add a dash of Montblanc, The Explorer
All into a cocktail shaker over ice,
let the spark vigorously combine it
and pour him into your glass half full.
But. There it is again.
The repetition compulsion.
The manifesting.
The going after.
The hunt: track. trail. conquer.
The Oedipal Winner,
losing.
The consequence is –
Seeing an altar in a smashed wildflower
duck tapped to a roadside tree.
It’s the spare change in a coffee cup; the leftovers.
Or taking the screen porch door
to the mangroves in your backyard
sitting on it, thinking it might hold you up.
It won’t.
Instead of the going: after, away, to…
I’ll opt for the still.
Not the still waiting but stillness; stock-still.
The sitting dirty dishes,
fully aware they’re a rinse away from purity.
The sound of quiet and pause in reflection.
Not the period but a comma, a semicolon,
the parenthesis in the middle of a sentence,
revealing what you’re really trying to say:
The truth is (if there was no consequence) I’d drink all of you.