An accidental inhale of my finger where the
bourbon must have dripped, and the scent of
spices is an adult reading of sweetness
sniffed from emptied bottles in Grandpa’s barn
amongst stripped corncobs awaiting their burn.
How curiosity in a smell could lead to this
pleasing addiction is one of the influences of
back then, and I now hope his slow climb to a
bedroom alone does not define just a pair of
events to shape future habits of a child.
On my third tonight, I breathe in from the bottle
and a whole new world of memories is ignited
like the cobs in their eventual stove, flames
of sour-mash swirls and all recall delighted.
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