They poured uneven every night: lagers, coke and rums,

Two-shot shots in cups that were goblets.

Liquor bottles clinked, flasks fizzing like formulas,  

She mixed elixirs that fumed until they fused,

 

All blended allure. Just seventeen, I envied 

Her mystic gifts, her ability to soothe.

At the bar, power was intoxicating 

sedation. I heaved slippery barrels upstairs, 

 

Grimy resin coating golden poison. Relief meant control,

She said. Once, I was asked to heave

Twelve cases of Pernod Absinthe to treat a crowd

At the bar on F Street by the gentlemen’s club. 

 

Unruly as a riot congregating, They shoved forward, 

Empty glasses in hand, darting eyes, open mouths requesting reprieve. 

Now there was control.

One hundred palliatives, sour and spiced, she mixed, in 

 

High pumps, a low cut tank. She didn’t smile 

at the men. No, while cavities opened wide, wailing,

She grimaced only subtly, and served toxic remedies, calming and

detaching, summoning some unseen alchemy.

 

Suddenly, she swigged a bottle as though

to turn toxicant into remedy. That was relief. 

And she resumed concocting, as if in control,

And somehow cured. I left the job the next day.