I drain the last glass of you, spit out the dregs,
refrain from spilling slops. Last drops
emptied, to recycle the bottle you came in.
I throw the cork away, along with forked-tongue lies,
memories that try to undermine me,
make me ask you to stay. No,
no dog’s hair will cure this hangover.
My head pounds from booze and untrue home truths
uttered by gaslight. My mouth tastes sour
and smells worse. I scrub. My toothbrush draws blood.
Thank the goddess, by morning, you’re long gone.
My toothpaste remains capped. We’re done.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ceinwyn Haydon would be
pleased to hear them.